


Ma Eolasa Banal

by villynnz



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cole ships it but not Yet, Eventual Romance, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multi, Slow Burn, Solas and Trevelyan rivalry, Solas is Very Dad, Sort of Unreliable Narrator, Spoilers for game and all DLC, Strong Language, When I say Slow Burn I mean the fire isn't even lit yet, and by sort of i mean Absolutely, spirit possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-05-25 04:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14968976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/villynnz/pseuds/villynnz
Summary: You fuckingpossessedme?i already possess you.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_///_

_“The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.” —Socrates_

_///_

* * *

 

“We must rid ourselves of it, somehow, I simply thought—“ 

“You thought giving it a _host_ most wise? Truly?! What if you’ve just summoned something far worse than a Pride demon?! Fool!” 

“Well, it put us out of any immediate danger, at least! Better than cowering, awaiting certain death!” 

_Shut up_ , I think, a wave of nausea sweeping over me as only my most heinous hangovers could ever possibly induce. _Just…shut up…_ There’s a soreness at the back of my head, like I’d been smacked upside the head with something blunt, and I can already feel the oncoming headache to pair with my churning stomach. I attempt to pry one eye open when— 

** if you wake, they will kill you.  **

I jolt, but a great pressure on my chest keeps me from sitting up and opening my eyes.   
****

** they are simple-minded creatures, driven by fear. they will not hesitate to harm that which they cannot understand.  **

And I know I inherited my mother’s innate, freaky ability to hold conversations with herself aloud, sure, but…hearing voices? That’s— _That’s new_.   
****

** rest, and i will watch over you. they will likely flee soon— i can feel his presence draw near, and soon they will, too. **

_…who?_  
****

The voice doesn’t respond, and I feel my own limbs go limp from weariness. It doesn’t take long for my mind to follow suit despite my best, ultimately futile attempts to wake myself. 

* * *

 

* * *

When I do wake, it’s only to find myself falling limply to the ground, like a rag doll— _what_? — My vision blurs in and out of focus as I try to blink the obtrusive sunlight out of my eyes, as my knees hit the ground, some sort of awareness finally washes over me. I glance down at the patch of dirt I’ve fallen into and then upwards to find an incredibly strange audience gauging me with varying expressions, the common denominator being extreme caution, I note, swallowing, trying to comb back through my memory to make sense of _any_ of it.

I can’t. 

The person closest to me speaks first. “I suspect you have questions.” 

_No shit?_

I turn my gaze towards him only to have my eyes drawn to his unnaturally pointed ears. No. _No fucking way_. It’s a genetic mutation—just an extreme version. I’d know. I’d been born with pointed ears myself; my mother had always joked about how I’d been adopted from a Keebler elf family in exchange for a lifetime of free fudge-strip cookies and I kept buying it until I was about ten and figured out her actual cookie-peddler was just the local Publix. His ears—they’re certainly longer than any I’ve seen before. But there were always exceptions, right? 

He must mistake my staring for confusion, which, I mean, isn’t technically _wrong_ , but. “Do you not speak Common?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing as his steely blue eyes scan my face, looking for something. “ _Ma're eth, falon._ ” 

At that, my eyebrows fly skywards. Is that…fucking Elvhen? With a swarm of panic swirling in my gut, my eyes flicker to his ears again. No, there’s no way. This is just… a really elaborate dream, or prank, or something. Mom’s gone too far with the Keebler-elf shtick this time, preying on my unholy love for all things Dragon Age and high fantasy. That’s all. 

** you’re safe.  **

I jump out of my skin at the sound, practically, stumbling backwards on my knees, a look of immense terror on my face.   
****

The man with the pointed ears Who-is-Not-a-Real-Elf-Because-Elves-Definitely-Don’t-Exist offers me a placating gesture, putting both his hands before him. His jaw clenches, though his expression remains neutral. “If you’d allow me to explain—“ 

“We should put the poor girl out of her misery,” another voice remarks, sounding almost apologetic as I turn my frightened gaze towards the source—a shorter, stockier man with honey blonde hair tied halfway back into a knot, and a remorseful look in his eye. “We’ve seen what happens when spirits and people mix, Chuckles. I know Wisdom is your friend, but you haven’t seen half the shit I have.” 

… _Chuckles?_

I can feel the blood drain from my face as I belatedly note the crossbow in the hands of my would-be executioner. How the fuck did I miss _that_? A lump forms in my throat at the thought that _Varric,_ of _all_ the characters my brain could’ve chosen, is petitioning for my death. 

Seriously? _Worst_ dream ever. 

“I’d ask that you keep your remarks to yourself, _durgen'lin_ ,” Chuckles— _Solas, holy shit, how did I miss_ that _?_ — responds tightly, never looking away, still intently studying my reactions. “Perhaps it is best if we begin with what you remember.” 

I blink stupidly. 

** he will appreciate honesty. you are in no danger from solas.  **

_No danger? Yeah, obviously, ‘cause it’s a dream…  And honesty? What a load of shit, coming from the biggest liar uncontested since, like, 2014._  
****

With a newfound sense of bravery, or stupidity, I exhale. Whatever. “I remember waking up, but, not really? It felt like somebody was trying to keep me asleep. And I remember a lot of annoying yelling. That came first. Um. Then, I passed out again.” 

“And before that?” presses Solas, almost gently. 

“Uh, I went to sleep? In my own bed?” _Probably?_

The fact I can’t admit that with total confidence is…slightly alarming. Why can’t I remember something I do _every night_? 

A pause, and then. “You remember nothing else?” 

His disappointment is glaringly apparent. I bite the inside of my cheek and against my better judgement glance over at the others gathered behind him, all terrifyingly prepped for combat. I skim the lineup—Cassandra, Varric, _of course_ , lingering on the only immediately unrecognizable face— a human female; her skin sun-kissed, her hair cropped chin-length and unevenly; the color of it an ashy black to match her eyes. _Trevelyan_? A sharp, quick stab of unease hits me as I recall only ever playing Adaar and Lavellan respectively. Maybe my brain had thought that’d be a little too on the nose? The woman apparently notices my staring and her already skeptical expression grows darker. 

** templar. do not push her.  **

Oh.  
****

I look back to Solas. “This might be the wrong question to ask, but, why is there a voice in my head that won’t stop giving me unsolicited advice?” 

“It _always_ starts with voices,” remarks Varric grumpily. Cassandra offers the dwarf a withering glare in response while Trevelyan maintains her defensive position, her silence speaking volumes. Nothing good for me. 

And, honestly, it’s embarrassing how long it takes my brain to play catchup. But once it does, I yelp. “ _Wait!_ —where the hell are we?” I glance a bit frantically around, only marginally relieved to note the lack of corpses but even that is shortlived once the dead trees and grass register as dauntingly familiar. 

He frowns a bit, maybe at my phrasing, before answering evenly. “The Exalted Plains.” 

_Ooooooookay..._

** i would not advise expanding on your understanding in current company.  **

_‘I know Wisdom is your friend, but—“_ Varric’s voice echoes in the recesses of my mind, and I go another shade of pale. _“— but you haven’t seen half the shit I have.”_  
****

At my silence, he adds, “Southeastern Orlais.” As if that is supposed to help this make any more fucking sense. 

“I’m familiar,” I retort unhappily. At least theoretically. “Maybe _why_ is a better question.” 

A sneer pulls at Solas’ lips. “A group of pathetically uneducated _Circle mages_ summoned a spirit of Wisdom to defend themselves— against the threat of templars, I’d expect— however, when spirits are summoned unwillingly their purpose becomes distorted,” his anger is scorching, transforming his voice into something throaty and dangerous-sounding. “And as a result, they become demons. They were, at least, educated enough to understand this. In a desperate attempt to avoid a more gruesome death, they cowardly decided to summon a temporary host with the intention to destroy it once their need had been satisfied. At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the remnants of their idiocy. It was not difficult to piece together.” 

“You sound personally offended,” I remark. 

“Should I not be? While this outcome is decidedly less disastrous, it is no less unnatural.” Solas’ posture straightens and the anger gradually subsides from his face, a mask of calm falling firmly into place. He folds his hands behind his back. A quirk I found, through Lavellan, to be quite charming. But faced with it directly, it feels nothing short of condescending, as though he’s trying to make himself seem smaller to be on level with me. “You yourself are taking this remarkably well, considering.” 

_Because it can’t be real._

“I’m alive,” I answer magnanimously. “Where are the mages?”

Solas doesn’t respond. 

** don’t press matters you don’t wish to understand.  **

So. He killed them.   
****

** …the remains are gone. do not look for them. i thought it best to deal with it before you woke.  **

Well, there’s that, at least.   
****

“Okay,” I reply lightly, trying not to think about it too deeply. “What now?” 

“Now,” says Solas, a glint of _something_ in his eyes. “We find a way to undo their stupidity.” 

“If that’s even possible.” Varric shakes his head, appearing grim. “Does no one remember what a shitshow Kirkwall was?” 

Trevelyan purses her lips. “I’m afraid I must agree with Varric, Solas. There’s evidence of such bindings going awry in the not-so-distant past— are we really going to allow such a threat to exist?” She glances sidelong at Cassandra expectantly, and surprise, surprise, the warrior nods her head once, firmly. 

“I understand your position, Solas, but—“ 

“You could not possibly understand,” he returns sharply, “And you are calling for the death of two innocents. Is this what the Inquisition stands for now? Slaughtering victims of circumstance?” 

I watch him face off with them, feeling a bit useless. 

Just as Trevelyan begins to raise her voice, Cassandra steps in, turning her gaze directly towards me. I practically shrink under the weight of it, a nervous twisting in my stomach. “We know the mages summoned you for the purpose of hosting the spirit and not much else. Perhaps some clarity will put our fears at ease. Where are you from?” 

** lie.  **

_You said honesty was best just a minute ago,_ I think tersely.   
****

** not with this. not with the templar, nor the seeker. you cannot afford this many unknowns. lie.  **

I mentally run through what I _can_ remember of Dragon Age’s geography. Central Ferelden is out. I don’t really have an appropriate accent to get away with it. Antiva, Orlais, and Rivain are out as I can’t speak even a little Spanish, French, or Italian. Tevinter is honestly just a horrendous pick in general for _obvious_ reasons. And… Trevelyan has to be from Ostwick; the game offers so little context on the Free Marches outside of Kirkwall that it’d be a little too easy for her to pick up on any inconsistencies. Which leaves…   
****

“The Frostbacks,” I blurt out unthinkingly. Cassandra and Trevelyan share a _look_ that I know isn’t good for me.

“It explains your strange attire and hair, at least,” the Seeker offers mildly after a moment of silence. 

Trevelyan is far less appeased. “The Avvar are even worse at keeping their mages in check than the Chantry. This solves nothing.” 

“Well, I’m not a mage so... problem solved.” 

Also, I severely doubt that there are any actual Avvar running around in leggings and oversized university t-shirts with root-y, bleached out hair but who can really say for sure? 

“That’s not possible,” interjects Solas. “It would be impossible for a spirit to attach itself to someone without a steady connection to the Fade. If you are truly concerned about being carted off to a Circle, then the Avvar are even more isolated than previously thought.” However, the stern look he fixes me with tells me he isn’t buying my half-baked cover whatsoever. “The Circles have long since disbanded. You need not worry—“ 

“For the moment,” adds Trevelyan icily, “Reform is still possible.” 

“A discussion for another time, perhaps,” suggest the apostate with a smile that has absolutely no warmth behind it. “In any case, with a castle full of templars, do you truly believe the girl a threat impossible to be neutralized, _if_ necessary?” There’s a sourness laced between the words and it takes me a minute to catch it, but once I do, I feel my jaw slacken. 

Templars. _Of course_ she picked the fucking templars. She is one. 

I bet she’s fucking Cullen, too, while making him take the goddamn Lyrium. Gross. 

While the pair of them pretend they aren’t glaring at each other, another voice speaks up, surprising me. “What’s your name, blondie?”

I blink, turning to Varric. His smile is obviously forced, and I can tell he’s thinking of another ‘ _blondie_ ’ whenever he does force himself to look my way. “Allison,” I answer, wondering if I shouldn’t have come up with something new and less bland—this _is_ my dream, after all. I could’ve picked, like, Valkyrie or something actually badass instead of my _actual_ name. 

Solas exhales audibly, and I wonder what’s got him so pissy until— _oh yeah, Allison’s not a very Avvar sounding name, is it? Oops._

“Varric Tethras,” he introduces himself with an exaggerated gesture. “Rogue, storyteller, and — “

“Perpetual pain in the ass,” Trevelyan finishes, wearing an impossibly tired expression, somehow still managing to look like a Disney princess. “Don’t get attached, Varric. We aren’t keeping her.” 

“Then, if I may ask, what _would_ you have us do?” inquires Solas. “If the decision were solely up to you,” he adds, clearly implying that it is, in fact, not. 

What a smartass. 

Trevelyan’s line of thought seems to be on the same general track. “You’re asking me to grant sanctuary to a potential abomination. Even if I felt comfortable with the risk, which I most certainly _do not_ , the templars of Skyhold would certainly have my head for it.” 

“I am telling you the risk is so minimal it may well not even exist,” retorts the mage stubbornly. 

“ _Kirkwall_ ,” she spits. 

“The Chantry was equally at fault for the escalation of events. There’s no use attempting to erase the templars’ involvement. This war wouldn’t be happening if not for it, in fact—“ 

“—the mages are out of control—“ 

“—if only because the templars have never allowed them even freedom of thought—“ 

As I glance between them uneasily, Varric lets out a low whistle. “Here they go again. It never ends.” 

“Why are they allowed to work together?” I ask honestly. Having Varric and Cassandra in a party was often amusing, if not a bit headache inducing with the cheap shots they near-constantly took at each other but to also have Solas in a party with a Templar-aligned Inquisitor? 

Uh, _yikes_.

“He saved her life, believe it or not,” he replies, “And they get along…sometimes. When magic isn’t involved.” 

Considering the entire context of the Inquisition as a whole that probably means… never. 

“If I asked you to just fucking put an arrow through me and end it so I never have to hear them bickering again, would you?” 

Varric chuckles. 

Since I remain distinctly un-pierced by arrows, I take it as a solid ‘no’. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's pretend the premise of this makes any sense at all ok, cool, thanks ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Ma Eolasa Banal: you know nothing 
> 
> Durgen'lin: dwarf 
> 
> Ma're eth, falon: you're safe, friend 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

* * *

The Circle mages lie dead in their arrogance. 

And yet, vindication has never seemed so insignificant a concept to Solas. 

“ _Ma garem.” you came._

For the first time in a very, very long time, the deceiver himself feels well and _truly_ stunned. The strange creature before him is unfamiliar in all but spirit. Quite literally so, in fact. His response is slow, languid, startled— “Of course, _ha falon_.” 

“ _Ir abelas. Ar dea deal de den elvyrlinor to diana esh'ala_.” _i am sorry. i was powerless (weak) to stop them._

Solas’ mind reels with infinite, all equally reprehensible possibilities, feeling the blood in his veins turn to ice. 

“ _Da'lan, ar telsila_.” _the girl, i worry. “As is tel aron em'an.”  she is not like us. _

 _“_ We will undo it,” replies the elf quietly, dutifully ignoring the way he senses the Inquisitor bristle from behind. The weight and heat of her predictable disapproval does not escape him. It never does. "I will not see you remain in a cage." 

Wisdom’s—the _girl’s_ — expression slackens. How strange it is to see his old friend emote in such a distinctly…humanlike manner. Taking a few slow, tentative steps forward, his friend reaches a hand out to brush his cheek gently, as though he is something fragile worth leaving unbroken. " _Ma serannas, Solas_." _ thank you._ For a moment, he allows himself a slip of the mask and cracks a mournful smile as Wisdom's touch slowly retracts. 

Of course it is the Inquisitor that speaks first, in all her impatience. "Your... _friend_ is well, I presume?" 

"As well as can be expected. Such matters are complicated." 

" _How_ complicated?" 

" _Ra nuva ea on'al itha ash_." _it may be best to show her._ Solas disagrees. " _Da'lan is din elvar'nas_." _the girl is no threat._

He knows better than to think the Inquisitor will see reason. He's watched and he's waited all of this time to see the mark's influence make itself prevalent, if it ever would. And with time it became increasingly obvious to him that Thea Trevelyan will never cease to play the role of an extremely sheltered Chantry child with painful accuracy. Her actions always speak of her upbringing, never of any opinion that would contradict the institution that had wanted her head served to it on a platter merely months ago. Even now, as he turns to measure her expression, she offers him a baleful quirk of the brow. 

She's exactly the kind of pious figurehead the Spymaster and Seeker had yearned for. 

 _The Herald of Andraste_ , come to save them all. 

She's also the exact, disastrous result of his own foolishness. This constant vexation... is, perhaps, not entirely undeserved. 

"It may be better clarified through the source." 

He's going to regret this. He knows he is. He should take Wisdom and run far, far away. But there is still the pressing matter of Corypheus, and...

Wisdom lowers its head in response, strands of hair the color of sunshine falling into its glowing eyes. " _Ra nuva ea n'ala vs... din is haim_."  _it may be best if the... corpses were to be absent._

"I will take care of it," he replies stiffly, feeling rather like a child being asked to clean up their mess. 

" _Sathan ver or ash._ " _please take care of her._  A smile. " _Ra britha min, ha falon, ar ame fra ma_." _it seems this time, old friend, i am counting on you._  

The body before him convulses once, twice, before falling to its knees, hands catching in the dirt. 

_she is not like us._

Dazed, cognac eyes peer upwards appearing tranquil for only a moment when the obvious terror floods them as they linger on the point of his ears for a moment too long. 

 _No_ , Solas muses grimly, _I suppose she is not._  

* * *

* * *

His suspicions are only further deepened with every minute that passes. The Frostbacks, she'd answered fumblingly; as though the flimsy, odd clothes on her back would protect her from such harsh weather conditions; as though they could provide protection from the creatures that stalk the mountains, or the warring holds. Still, the Avvar remain reclusive enough that _most_ Southerners would not bother with fact-checking, even if they could. The worrisome matter is that the Inquisition has both the resources _and_ a perfectly capable Spymaster to accomplish the feat twice over. 

_ please take care of her._

A task much easier said than done, it seems. 

He wishes she would keep her mouth shut, just long enough for him to exhaust the Inquisitor's paranoia at the very least. 

"A reminder," Thea spits, "That the last abomination you deemed a non-threat was found _slitting throats_ on Skyhold's very doorstep." 

Solas' eye twitches. "As an act of mercy; those soldiers were suffering immeasurably and silently. They would not have survived another week of prayers and well-intentioned thoughts, regardless. Though, I suppose compassion is a rather foreign concept for one such as you. Your misconception, this time, at least, is understandable." 

" _You_ —"

The Inquisitor, most fortuitously, does not get the opportunity to complete her no doubt colorful line of thought before the Seeker steps in. " _Enough_. There is a decision to be made, and since it has proven to be impossible to come to a unanimous agreement currently..." Cassandra's eyes flicker between them as though she's mediating a petty argument between children. "We will bring the girl with us to Skyhold and come to a consensus with the acknowledgement of the War Council." 

Solas notes strangely that the girl's— _Allison,_ she called herself—face grows a shade paler at that. A far cry from the half-smirk she'd worn just moments earlier whilst exchanging banter with the dwarf. 

It is true, the odds are skewed out of her favor, _he_ is certain— but how could _she_ possibly have an understanding of such? 

"Is this acceptable to you both?" asks Cassandra flatly. 

Trevelyan's entire face contorts as though she's just swallowed something particularly sour. "Yes, that is acceptable." 

It is not. But, "I suppose we have few other options." 

"Until we reach Skyhold, she is _your_ charge. Whatever happens to her, be it on your head, Solas," voices the Inquisitor darkly, allowing her eyes to skim irreverently past the blonde girl currently looking towards the woman as though she's trying not to keel over from shock. Then, turning meaningfully in the far-off direction of the Dalish encampment where they'd left their horses to rest, she adds loftily, "We're in dangerous territory still, after all." 

_ it seems this time, old friend, i am counting on you. _

_Fenedhis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: translations are not exact just assume i'm a dumbass trying to get away with the bare minimum always


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief mentions of vomiting/gore/blood (not that descriptive but i figure it’s best to be safe)   
>  mentions of a car accident, child injury, and minor character death (not a canon character)

* * *

The stench overwhelms my senses, coppery and pungent and visceral. It takes a little under thirty seconds for my brain to catch up to my body which is hunched over, upheaving the remnants of — _yesterday’s…?—_ Panda Express. I had ordered Panda Express on a whim that night, hadn’t I? I should remember. This should be easy to remember. But I can’t. Instead, I only focus on the presence of someone’s warmth at my back, hearing the shift in position as they kneel beside me, pressing a hand to my shoulder gently. But none of that matters. None of it matters because there’s a sword sticking through the torso of a man, who was probably a mage, but that doesn’t matter because it was still a _man._

And now he’s _nothing_. Nothing but blood, and— 

— _and_ having his final resting place desecrated by an idiot vomiting all over it. 

**breathe.**

_I am,_ I internally seethe, _and that’s kind of the fucking problem._  
****

“God—“ A gasp; an attempt is made at swallowing. The sour taste is far worse going back down, burning the length of my already raw throat.  “I—“

“Do not force yourself,” a voice remarks quietly—it’s nice, in the way that _nothing_ should be _nice_ because there’s still blood everywhere _and_ — “You’ve been through a great deal already, and the possession—“

_Possession?_

_You fucking_ possessed _me?_

**i already possess you. there is nothing to be done about that, at least for the time being. i only acted to save your life.**

“— would not have made it any easier.” Steady hands attempt to guide me upwards though my legs stubbornly refuse to cooperate. I don’t get very far but it seems like the idea is to just get me a reasonable distance away from the… blood. It works, a little. With the overwhelming smell alleviating enough to catch my breath, finally, my vision becomes less wobbly as a result. “Sit,” the voice orders, not unkindly. “I can lessen the nausea. There is nothing to be done for the shock, however. Is that alright with you?” 

“P- _Please._ ” 

A soft glow permeates long, spindly fingers as they hover just shy of my stomach. 

“…What…happened?” I ask gruffly, despite now having somewhat of an awful, horrific idea. 

**it is not necessary for you to recall such brutality this very moment. rest.**

_Oh, shut up._

Solas seems to be of the same general opinion. “Perhaps—“   
****

“Just tell me,” I interject, when he still hesitates, I add, “I can be really annoying when I want to be. And I’m already having a really, really bad day, so, like, cut me some slack. I promise I’ll try not to throw up on your shoes—erm, feet.”

The elf’s lips pull into a thin line, searching my expression as if looking for something. “… Very well. I assume you remember, at least, making our way from the Dalish encampment and beginning the journey towards the Inquisition’s forward camp?” 

Vaguely. 

“You went back for the horses. Trevelyan stopped for supplies, and then…we left.” 

“Yes,” he affirms with a nod. “And after?” 

Everything had gone without a hitch for a while, surprisingly enough. I’d been glued to Solas’ side by instinct not entirely my own; maybe a little bit out of necessity. I remember thinking to myself that it would be much, much easier to cling to Varric, if only I wasn’t completely aware of how smart he actually is and the unpleasant thought struck me that his charismatic prodding was not entirely an altruistic endeavor. 

That’s not me. I _love_ Varric. Even in incredibly freaky, twisted, fucked up nightmarish dreams, I would trust him implicitly. 

 _I_ do. 

And that’s where the line gets blurry. 

“I rode with you. We—we talked, a little, I think.” I meet Solas’ gaze, slightly afraid of what I’ll find there. He waits patiently for me to continue. “…Someone screamed.” 

“Yes.” 

“It was…me.” 

A soft, almost apologetic sigh. And yet, my heart drops at the sound of it. “Yes.” 

“Mages,” I mumble.

“Venatori,” he corrects delicately. “But simply put, yes. Mages.” 

“I don’t remember anything after…” After they had knocked me off Solas’ horse with embarrassing ease. 

**and it is best that you don’t.**

My jaw clenches, I force myself to stare at my hands folded in my lap. There was…there was a _sword_ through him. It wasn’t… It wasn’t me, or Wisdom, or any other fucking _third party_ that may or may not be lurking in the depths of my mind. It wasn’t done with these hands. Right? Right… _Right_. I probably couldn’t even lift a sword if I wanted to. Clasping my hands together to put an end to their irritating shaking, I peer up at the elf once more. “Where are the others?”   
****

He seems to consider his next words carefully. “After the battle, the Inquisitor thought it best to move forward on to the camp to provide support, seeing as it is relatively close. She suspected there were more Venatori in the area than these few stragglers. It is not unreasonable to assume they would potentially attack the camp next.”

“Oh.” 

“She is, _occasionally_ , capable of comprehensive thought. Given appropriate prodding.” He smiles slightly. Or is it a smirk? “Rare as it may be.” 

“That’s…good.” He may be a hilariously sarcastic ass, but I’m not really in the mood for taking potshots at a woman that could actually kill me with her pinky finger. “…I guess you drew the short stick, then?” I offer sheepishly, trying not to claw at my bare arms out of habit. Mostly, I  just don’t want any further confirmation of the possibility that any of this could be…real. What is it they say in movies, or whatever? _Pinch me_? Yeah, how about no. 

Solas’ brows furrow at the remark, puzzled. “…Short stick?” 

“Uh, it’s an expression, mostly, but the idea is that you pull sticks and whoever draws the shortest gets stuck with the thing no one else really wants to do?” 

“Is this a commonplace custom of the Avvar?” he inquires dryly. 

_Son of a bitch._

I shrug. 

**you can trust solas.**

_...is that a joke?_

**you’ll find much of what you know to be true holds no bearing here.**

_Oh, is he not Fen’harel, then?_

Wisdom seems to finally find the mute button. 

That’s what I thought. 

Solas waits, and when he ultimately realizes he’s not about to get anything more out of me, he suggests, “If you’re feeling well enough, it might be best that we make our way to the camp before the sun fully sets. The Inquisitor is not one to be kept waiting and these parts are unsafest after dark.” 

“Yeah, sure,” I bite my tongue to keep from insinuating that I _really_ don’t want to see _any_ more of what this place has to offer. “Okay.” 

* * *

* * *

When I was seven years old, my biological mother had gotten into a devastating car accident with me in the backseat. I remember the day perfectly still. It was one of the rare times she actually took advantage of her limited visitation rights. I'd grumbled about it all the way up 'till the day she showed up at our doorstep with grand promises of ice cream and a day trip to the beach. For once, I thought I wouldn't hate being around her for any length of time. And I was kind of right. The ice cream was legit, and she restrained herself from making comments and bursting into tears about how I looked just like the father I'd never met. But as nice as it was, and as young as I was, I was stupid to let my guard down. I knew she couldn't be trusted even at seven years old. My _parents_ knew she couldn't be trusted, which is why she was only allowed to show up a few times a year. And, yet.

It was fast, happening in the span of a few seconds. A red light that became an afterthought to the song blaring from the radio, from a glance at the pager sat in her cupholder. The safety of the little girl strapped in the backseat an afterthought, ultimately. 

It took her life and traumatized the fuck out of me. My adoptive parents learned fairly quickly that attempting to swaddle me in any blankets was unacceptable — I’d resist them, just as I resisted the shock blankets the paramedics had tried to force on me. Nightlights were also a no-go if they weren’t plain, stark white. Yellow lights to this day remind me of the flickering ones in the shitty hospital they’d taken us to. 

I’d spent a majority of my early childhood and early teens being coddled because of it. Because my parents would rather have had me wrapped in bubblewrap for the entirety of my life than force me into a psychologist’s office that set all my nerves on edge, resulting in endless tantrums. Because other people would see the scar trailing from the inner part of my elbow and all the way up my shoulder before they would see anything else. Because it was easier than learning to cope, I didn’t even consider getting behind the wheel of a car until I turned twenty-three. 

I’m no stranger to death. I’d been there when my biological mother had been announced brain dead. I’d held her hand, and I hadn’t even responded negatively to the strangers who came to her funeral referring to her as my mother; the way I might have any other day, under any other circumstance. The most she’d ever done for me was bring me into the world. The least I could do was see her out of it. 

But this? 

Even though that man was no one recognizable to me, it somehow feels that much more personal that remnants of his blood still stains my clothes. 

As if reaching into my skull and plucking out my morbid thoughts, Solas finally breaks the silence. “That man attempted to kill you.”

We’ve been walking quietly for, if I had to guess, no more than a half hour. At least, it feels like it hasn’t been very long, but I guess I’ve been so in my head I wouldn’t be able to tell if it was.

“You need not feel guilty for the path he chose that led to his own demise.” 

Unease swells in my gut, pulsing. “I’m honestly more pissed about my clothes, to be honest.” _Not true, not true, not true._ Fucking liar. 

He doesn’t seem particularly convinced, but at least he lets it go without further comment. “There will be a change of clothes for you at the camp, I’m certain. The Inquisition is well equipped, if nothing else.” 

“Great.” 

More silence. 

“You have not witnessed many battles,” he guesses. 

I snort, but it comes out far less derisive than I’d like. 

“The Avvar are not a people to keep even their mages ill-prepared for war,” he adds, “I won’t press you on it now, as it hardly seems appropriate. However, I would like to — “

“Can we just… not?” I ask, voice irritatingly croaky. “I’m really… not in the fucking mood, okay?” 

**keeping everything to yourself will only do you more harm.**

_And is it not my right to let it?_  
****

**you’ve convinced yourself this was all a dream. now you know better and you are afraid—it is alright to be afraid. but do not let fear isolate you when companionship is within your reach.**

Ugh, it’s like having Mom lecturing me all over again.   
****

**your mother is a wise woman, but we are not the same.**

_No shit._  
****

I drag a hand down the side of my face, staring dully at the back of Solas’ head. The horse trots alongside him, the lead in the elf’s hands keeping it close. I feel much the same. Only my tether is a fucking _spirit_ from a place that only exists in a _video game._ As if sensing my shrewd gaze on him, his head tilts to glance over his shoulder. “Is something the matter?” 

Only everything, _jackass_. 

“I need to tell you something,” I admit uncomfortably. 

He stops. The horse stops. I glare at the ground, desperately wishing I’ll be swallowed up by it rather than have to attempt this conversation at all. It seems I’m out of luck, or the ground is on an Allison-free diet, because twenty seconds later nothing has changed. I scratch my arms. “So.” 

“Yes?” he encourages patiently. 

“I’m not…really from the Frostbacks.” 

“Really? I hadn’t guessed.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever.” I sniff, feeling a light shudder wrack my body from the onslaught of anxiety I feel. Just get it over with.“… What I mean is I’m not…from… _here_ in general?” 

Solas’ eyebrows furrow. “…Orlais?” 

“Uh, Thedas.” Or whatever the world is called. I can’t remember if Thedas is the world itself, or just a continent, but either way. My point is made. 

His expression goes positively blank, and then— “Ah.” 

“That’s it?” Fucking _‘Ah?’_

Solas smiles placatingly. “I suspected as much. Wisdom had said something that struck me oddly.” 

_Not cool._

**i merely meant to ensure your prolonged safety— forgive me.**

_Whatever. Maybe._  
****

“So, that’s it? You just _believe_ me?” 

“Naturally, I have questions… but the sun is about to set, so I suggest we make our way to camp before it does. It is not far now.” 

“I don’t really want to talk about this around…” Leliana’s spies that I just fucking know are crawling all over these camps. Or worse, templars. And I can think of one in particular I _really_ don’t want to overhear this shit. “The others,” I finish weakly. 

“You do not need to worry about that,” he replies loftily, turning his back and continuing on. 

And I really don’t like the look he got on his face just then. 

_This is your fault. You and your creepy League of Elf Villains boyfriend._

**do you not feel better?**

_Shut up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter probably sucks but i've rewritten it 5 times and this is, believe it or not, the least infuriating attempt
> 
> in other astonishing news i love the word fuck and removed at least 6 iterations of it in editing this is the result and there's still too many


	4. Chapter 4

 

* * *

_My name is Allison Kath Finch. I am 25 years old. ~~there's a spirit currently inhabiting my body. kinda fucked up~~ My parents are Ellis and Annabel Finch. ~~i can't remember the last thing i did before waking up here. kinda fucked up~~  I woke up here ~~in a fictional universe I only know from a video game~~ I'm not crazy.  ~~i might be crazy, actually. kinda fucked up.~~_

_I want to wake up ~~in my own bed, under my own roof,~~ in my own world. _

_But I haven't yet._

~~_will i ever_ ~~

_There are a lot of things wrong with this place. ~~i don't know enough about Trevelyan, i don't know where siding with the templars leads~~_ ~~~~_Wisdom was not supposed to survive the mages' summoning. ~~but it did, and now i'm here and it's~~_ ~~fucked~~ _~~up.~~ The Avvar can separate spirits from human hosts—I think. In Jaws of Hakkon it was seriously implied at the very least. But—_

  1. _I highly doubt the Inquisitor is about to loosen my leash enough for me to get to them._
  2. _Unfortunately, I'm not a mountain climber._
  3. _I'd fucking die._
  4. _No Wisdom= I'm alone, completely._
  5. _Did I mention death already_



_And as freaky as having an uninvited houseguest in my head is, I honestly don't think I'd be much better off on my own._

* * *

* * *

“You a writer, sunshine?” a familiar voice inquires amusedly. I peer up from my scribbling to find Varric fixing me with a strange look from across the campfire. I blink stupidly for a minute before it registers. 

“ _Sunshine_?” 

“Your hair,” he gestures to his own sandy locks with a chuckle. “And, hey, if you hold the charcoal like that it’ll get all over your hands and be a pain in the ass to get off — you gotta hold it like this, see?” He mimics holding a piece of charcoal between his pointer finger and thumb, rather than the sloppy way I’d been scrawling all my life, having been spoiled by ball point pens and pencils. I correct my stance immediately. 

“Oh. Thanks.” 

Sunshine… it’s kind of cute. I don’t hate it; why does it feel wrong?  

“So, writing anything interesting?” 

“…Not really,” I answer tepidly. “Solas is making me study.” Not entirely a lie. He did want me to begin researching magical theory, whatever the hell that entails. He seems to be under the impression that Wisdom is basically a built-in, fully functional teacher capable of miracles. I don't think he's accounted for the fact that as long as I'm in control, so are _my_ priorities— which are, of course, not doing that. 

**denial.**

Yeah. What about it. 

Varric smiles indulgently. “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.” 

I’m not so sure. There's been no indication as far as I've seen that I'm even capable of whatever it is mages do here. Other than, like, acting as some kind of spirit hostel, I guess. But fine. If the people of this world really think it’s best to try to hand my impulsive, neurotic ass the ability to shoot ice and fire at will, far be it from me stop them. I shut my not- _completely_ -ethically-acquired new journal and tuck it into my side for safe keeping. If this camp is good for anything it's probably the fact that the people just leave shit out everywhere for anyone to take. And it's acceptable, because war or whatever. 

Upon first glance, I realized with a swift kick to the gut that the game heavily downplayed the camp's size and capacity probably for the development team’s sanity. The camps in the game were always relatively small and I personally only ever bothered getting them marked if I was being chased by one of those demonic bears that just wouldn’t fucking give up, or if I was about to fight a dragon in the area. This camp? There are tents of all manner of sizes sprawled methodically for a considerable distance with research areas (tables, basically) and merchant stalls tucked between. The Inquisitor and Co’s digs are smack dab in the middle of everything, surrounding the massive campfire, and as Solas is pretty much my established babysitter, that includes me. Trevelyan hadn’t been pleased when the elf peddled me off to her and Cassandra’s quarters last night, for propriety’s sake if nothing else, but hey— we’ve managed to not kill each other. (And by that, I mean she managed to not strangle me in my sleep.) 

And, as promised, Solas had immediately found a merchant willing to supply me with enough clothes to last the trip back to Skyhold and then some. 

They aren’t _nice_ clothes... but beggars probably shouldn’t be choosers and all that. The cut of the shirt— _tunic_?— is pretty unflattering in itself, barely offering any more shape than my grungy t-shirt had. The pants are tight fitting; almost like leggings but instead of being stretchy and soft, they are itchy and unaccommodating.

I'd always imagined that dressing up in high fantasy/medieval wear would be fun. Witchy vibes only and all that. But alas, here there are no cute lace corsets to be found. No crinkly skirts. Just chafing thighs and a whole lot of regret. 

If I were to really complain, I have little doubt that Trevelyan would actually toss me over her shoulder and drown me in the nearest river. So I don't. If I cried a little when I had to toss my leggings into their funeral pyre I’m not about to tell anyone—even if there had been many witnesses all onlooking with varying expressions spanning from disgust (Cassandra, Trevelyan) all the way to wry amusement (guess).

I loved those leggings. I lived in those leggings. Okay? 

The t-shirt was an unfortunate casualty but I’m also pretty sure there were holes in the armpits, so… fare thee well. You did your best. 

“So, how you holding up?” asks Varric kindly. “You and… your, uh—“ he trails off uncomfortably. 

** he is wary.  **

Rightfully so. Anders was… a mess.  
****

I mean, I’m a mess too but for entirely unrelated reasons.

The key difference between us being that I clearly don't have the sort of real emotional investment in this world that he did (does?? Hm.) nor the tangible motivation to change any of it. 

** that is a strange thing to be relieved about.  **

Whatever. For the first time in pretty much forever I'm just glad that my own brand of activism revolves solely around lurking gofundme pages at 2 a.m while scraping the bottom of my wallet and crying after a long night of drinking. Back home often it'd just make me feel useless and wind up throwing me into deeper, darker moods. Because the world was shit and it always seemed like so little, like it was never enough. I mean, this world is still shit but... _apocalyptic_ shit is way beyond my pay grade, okay? And in some incredibly morbid way that's almost comforting. Big world, small me. What do you want me to do about it? 

** you have knowledge.  **

I have _bigger_ problems. That's what I have. That's _all_ I have. 

“I’m… coping.” Barely. Not really. “I think it’s probably better if I _don’t_ get used to this, you know?” Not that I could. 

The dwarf nods emphatically. 

This is likely the best opportunity I’m going to get to info-fish about Kirkwall and…Hawke. I bite the inside of my cheek contemplatively, trying to find a way to spin a question that won’t elicit immediate suspicion. “You’re a storyteller, aren’t you?” I finally manage. “When we met, that’s how you introduced yourself.” Thank god for Varric having a limited pool of charismatic one-liners for introducing himself, and all of them playing on the fact he’s Thedas’ biggest ham. 

“Ah, I dabble.” The words are accompanied by a cheeky grin and a shrug of his stocky shoulders. 

_Oh, you are so full of shit._

I love it. 

“You ever hear of the Champion of Kirkwall?”

“I might have heard whispers of her up in the reclusive mountains, yes,” I reply snarkily. 

“ _Her_?” 

“Uh, yeah...?” And then, I freeze. 

_Oh my god, you fucking idiot._

… **hawke is a male mage, so you may avoid further confusion.**

That...would have been nice to know.   
  
Thanks for looking out, pal. 

** you did not ask. your mouth works remarkably fast.**

And _that_  doesn't sound like a compliment. 

I swallow, feeling my entire face go deeply red. At least the light of the fire can mask most of it, I hope. Varric gives me an odd look. “… I meant _him_ , obviously. I— we have many tales of our own in our hold, and so many of them feature women that I must’ve projected. My mistake.”   
****

“Oh, yeah? You’ll have to tell me one sometime,” the dwarf offers rather charitably, considering I’m truthfully the biggest dumbass in all of the known universe.

I nod stiffly. “…Sure. So, the Champion?” 

He gets a twinkle in his eye, one that I suspect is common wherever Hawke is concerned, and I get what I’ve been after, somehow. 

Having my idiocy rewarded is probably not super great for my ego, but it’s fine. 

Hawke sided with the mages, of course. Varric was awfully (deliberately) vague about it, but I read in-between the lines— Hawke romanced Anders— which kind of explains why the writer is so blatantly heedful of me and Wisdom, despite his normally friendly demeanor. That couldn’t have ended well. Or maybe it did? It’s the one thing he seemed to refuse to expand on, whatsoever. Everything else is about what I expected; Aveline’s with the guards, Merrill’s taken charge of the alienage in her own sweet, oblivious way. Fenris is off chasing slavers. Isabela is off living her best Admiral life, presumably with an excessively large harem. The most shocking news was to find out Carver is still alive, having been recruited into the Grey Wardens on the Deep Roads excursion. 

…Sunshine.

That’s why it bothers me.

I only ever played female rogue Hawke (once, I wasn’t a huge fan of Dragon Age II’s penchant for having all the dungeons look the same), so I guess part of me expected Bethany to just… be alive. Or at least mentioned. But Varric never met her, and now I’ve somehow hijacked the nickname that should have belonged to her. 

** you are overthinking this.  **

_Am I?_    
****

Still feels pretty fucking bad.

“How’s that for a story?” chimes Varric. “Pretty decent, right?” 

I force a smile. “More than decent, I’d say. Way worth the hype.” 

When Solas comes to collect me for a ‘lesson’, I’ve never been so grateful. 

* * *

* * *

“Did you get a restful sleep?” the elf asks, leading me to the most isolated edge of camp. As we pass, scouts and soldiers alike offer Solas almost grudging nods of respect, completely ignoring my presence.

I see my reputation precedes me. 

He stops, finally, once we reach the edge of camp lacking guard posts and watchtowers and I eye him warily. “I mean, I just passed out. I don’t remember. I was really tired.” 

“You did not dream?” 

“…No.” I pause. “Well, maybe. Everyone dreams, right? But we don’t always remember it. That’s how brains work.” 

Solas gives me _a look_ before folding his hands behind his back. “… I see. That may be how ‘brains’ work where you are from, but here mages typically enter the Fade when they dream.” 

I blink, an annoyed scowl pulling at my lips. “Um. Yes, I’m aware. I’ve also told you I’m not a mage. And I’m not from here.” 

“And I have told you that you are mistaken.” 

“There’s no magic where I’m from,” I cut in with a glower. “And I think I’d know if something changed—“ 

“— You mean, a change as significant as a spirit possessing you?” 

_Shit._

Solas smiles, and I absolutely want nothing more than to smack it off his face. “Mages who can traverse the Fade at will are called Sominari. It’s not a task most find themselves naturally capable of though it can be honed given enough time and practice.” 

“Is that how it was for you?” 

“I believe with Wisdom’s help, the process should be successful and come to you at a much quicker pace,” he finishes, completely ignoring my innocent question. 

Rude. 

I cross my arms against my chest. “And what if I don’t want to?” 

“I believe it would be advantageous for you to at least consider it.” 

“…How?” I ask plainly. “Isn’t that just putting me at a greater risk for, like, demonic possession?” 

“Not necessarily. You are already at risk; there is no ‘greater’ or ‘more’ in your case. There just is.” 

“Well, _that_ isn’t helping.” 

“You have my assurance that you will be _fine_.” The ‘ _most likely_ ’ goes unsaid and we both know it. 

“Why are you even pushing this so hard?” I inquire brashly. “Like, what do you get out of it— “ Then, it hits me. “Oh, _holy shit_. You— you’re trying to use me as like some kind of freaky in-between for you and your fucking spirit—!” 

God. Kik, but for elves who only get it on with spirits. 

** don’t be crude.  **

_Is he actually as mouthy as people headcanon him as? I bet he uses words like quim._  
****

** …  **

“Wisdom is a friend; one I treasure dearly. ” Solas’ tone goes completely flat, evidently not pleased with my assumption and also, maybe, the dumbass smirk on my face. He totally uses outdated flowery language in bed, he's totally that guy. “Yes, I wish to converse with it as I have in the past, but I have no ulterior motives in attempting to strengthen your spiritual capacity. If anything, gaining a better understanding of the Fade will only reduce the risk of attracting negative energy.” 

“You just said—“ 

“The risk while minimal may exist,” he says firmly. “But that does not mean it should frighten you. If you were capable of understanding the magic behind it, you might find yourself less… on edge, in my opinion.” 

And I guess in this universe Solas' opinion is basically law. At least where the Fade is concerned, since no one else has any idea what the fuck is going on. That, or it's just that no one really cares. Like, specifically...me. 

“Are you even going to give me an option here?”

“Of course. Despite what you seem to believe, I am not completely unreasonable. I only ask that you seriously consider it.” 

“Fine, okay. Whatever.” Maybe he’ll just forget about it given enough time. “I’ll think about it.” Not.  

Solas’ eyes narrow, as though he can pinpoint my exact thoughts, which is ridiculous but I still feel a prickle of fear run along my spine at the sight of it. “…Very well. Since it seemed prudent to let you rest early last night, I withheld any questions, but since you seem coherent enough at the moment—“ _wow, fuck you?_ “— I would like to talk about this place you claim to hail from.” 

“Uh, Earth?” 

“Yes, that. Where is it?” 

I blink. “In…the solar system?” 

“Pardon?” 

“In outer space?” 

“ _Excuse me_?” 

I scowl. “Why don’t you ask me questions I actually can answer?” 

“From where on ‘Earth’ are you from, exactly? Tell me something of it.” 

I flop to the ground in an exhaustive heap, already feeling a headache coming on. When Solas deems to sit primly on a rock beside me, I sit upright on my knees. “Okay. Well, I grew up in a country called America. I doubt you’ve heard of it.” Solas shakes his head in confirmation. “There are fifty states that make up the whole country. Kind of like…the Free Marches, but bigger. A lot bigger.” I’m assuming. I've yet to actually see a map of Thedas. If it's a continent, I'm willing to bet it's way smaller than North America as a whole. If it's the world... I don't know. 

**thedas is a continent, though it is considerably larger than you give it credit for. just the tevinter imperium is approximately the size of what you call canada.**

... Huh. Why did it never occur to me to just _ask_? 

**a wonder.**

_Okay, you can shut up now. Thanks._

**you're welcome.**

“And which state are you from?” 

I blanch. How do you even begin to explain the chaos that is Southern Florida to someone who has _no_ idea about the chaos that is Southern Florida? 

** just be honest.  **

“Florida,” I answer tentatively. “Um, I live closer to the south. It’s a touristy kind of area, so…very congested with people during certain parts of the year.” 

“The climate?” 

“Summery?” He quirks a brow, and I try again. “Warm. Very warm. Humid-hot most of the time. Dry heat is way more tolerable, but I grew up with it so I just kind of dealt.” 

“That is one explanation for the strange attire we found you in.”

“Yeah…I haven’t been to many mountains in my time.” 

“I do not doubt it.” 

“Um… what else?” 

Solas’ expression almost softens. “Your family? Friends? Certainly there are people to notice you’ve gone missing.” 

“I don’t want to talk about that.” 

_I really don’t._

** it will help.  **

_I don’t care._  
****

If anyone could probably relate, I would think it would be Solas, considering he eradicated a vast majority of his own people and threw the more troublesome ones, essentially, into some kind of elf storage unit. It appears I’m correct because he lets it slide without complaint, just a pinched expression. “Well, it will certainly be interesting to attempt to figure out how those mages pulled you from your home at the very least. Perhaps we will even find a way to separate you from Wisdom and send you back.”

In an ideal world, maybe. 

In this one? 

I exhale briskly. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” 

Not that I believe it will happen even for a second. 

* * *

* * *

Another day is spent stalking about the camp like the outsider I am. At dawn the next morning, Trevelyan announces we are leaving. We. As in, Varric, Cassandra, Solas— and _me_. 

To Skyhold. 

Where a very scary Leliana awaits, likely having heard all about me and my ‘condition’ through correspondence Trevelyan pretended not to be doing in the late night. Shit. Not to mention Cullen and his phobia of all things magic. There's no way of telling which way Josie will lean though I kind of assume she'll go along with whatever Leliana decides which is super unhelpful... but I can't even be mad, really, because _Josie_. 

Before I’m ushered onto the back of Solas’ horse again for what I assume is going to be a very, very long ride, I feel a plated gauntlet pat me on the shoulder only a bit roughly. I, of course, am jolted forwards at a mere touch because, well, I’m me. A barely 5’5” walking disaster. 

“You have cooperated thus far,” Cassandra’s thickly accented voice projects. I feel it reverberate in the back of my skull. Cooperative. Right. Like there was a choice, ever. “We will remember that.” 

I glance up at her, unsurprised to find that up close she’s actually every bit as threateningly stunning as in the game. Not fair. I _know_ I look like a troll doll, seeing as I haven’t been allowed to wash my hair in at least three days. “Thanks,” I reply, amazed that I somehow manage not to cringe. “Um… thank you for before, too.” 

Both of Cassandra’s perfectly shaped eyebrows raise. That was clearly the last thing she was expecting to come out of my mouth. 

“For…the mage. That was you, wasn’t it?” 

Who else on this team carried a sword and wasn’t necessarily predisposed to wanting me dead? 

“Oh, that. I am afraid not. It was the Inquisitor that met the blow with her sword and saved your life,” she admits. 

…. _What?_

“Oh.” 

Well, there goes my good humor— no way am I thanking _her_. She probably only did it in hopes that she’d get to execute me herself. I can just see it now. I have not survived twenty-odd years to go out at the hands of someone who has got a strobe light for a hand extension. And was it really necessary for her to just...leave her sword there? Wasteful. Rude. 

“If you wish to convey your gratitude, now would be the time. The ride to Skyhold will be long and we will not have much time for pleasantries.” 

“No, you know what? I’m good. That’s fine.” 

Cassandra’s scar twitches, like she’s swallowing a smile. “Very well.” 

And that’s that. 

She wasn’t lying when she said the ride to Skyhold would be long, _torturously_ long. 

On the way, I found myself almost grateful for the company I have tucked away in my head. Almost. 

** the feeling is mutual. **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i do a magic trick and pull a bunch of thedosian geography out of my ass :^)
> 
> a quick question for anyone still bothering to read my dumbass author notes:  
> would you prefer I tag the main ship/s now? or keep it gen until we get there bc it'll likely be slow burn af 
> 
> [ vote here if u don't wanna comment -v-](https://www.strawpoll.me/16063679)
> 
> if true neutral wins i'm making an executive decision so choose wisely cos i'm an asshole


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update 1/2.

* * *

_18 years before the Inquisition is reformed._

* * *

 

“The girl is clearly possessed by _something_. Allowing her among the others would be tempting an abomination infestation—it is out of the question.” 

“Her magic signature is minimal,” scowls a woman with hair the color of snow, eyes the color of frost. “I am certain that did not escape your notice amidst her evaluation.” A weighted pause, and then. “You would not even allow her the opportunity to speak— you locked her away so quickly, I’d be surprised if she even knows where she is.” 

“She is a mage inflicted with a fragile mental state. She is exactly where she should be, Wynne.” 

“She is but a scared girl, _Greagoir_.” 

“Both of you, please, calm yourselves.” 

“First Enchanter,” acknowledges Wynne, “You’ve seen what happens to young mages kept in solitary. It only serves to isolate them, causing them to resent the Circle and those of us trying to keep the peace further. It creates apostates," the words roll off her tongue like an accusation, which would be an apt approximation. 

Greagoir purses his lips. “And I’m sure your point of view is completely pragmatic and has nothing to do with the lost child she howls incessantly for.” 

“Greagoir,” Irving warns. “Wynne…what would you have us do? The girl is hysteric. Her magic, though faint, still remains untrained and though it is, admittedly, at most, a _mild_ threat; it is still a threat.” 

“I’d have you allow her the chance to learn, as you do any other,” she states with clinical calmness, ignoring the Knight Commander’s poorly concealed anger. “Her troubles can be soothed, just as any child’s can. With patience…” Her icy eyes finally flicker towards the man glowering at her. “Tolerance.” 

“I see.” 

“My men found her covered in blood, screaming her lungs out,” hisses the Knight Commander. “Madness is a common trait found amongst blood mages, and you truly would even _consider_ this, Irving?” 

“You assume much, Knight Commander. Her magic is not yet fully developed—“ 

“You keep referring to her as a helpless child and yet she appears to me as a grown woman. Teaching a grown mage is not the same as conditioning the young—“ 

“Perhaps so. But I imagine we’d have better clarified the issue if she’d been allowed to speak for herself before you had your men lock her up.” 

“ _Wynne_ ,” Irving sighs, running a hand over his eyes exhaustively. “If you wish to speak with the girl, I will make arrangements. Greagoir, you may choose the templars you send to accompany her. Is this to both your likings?” 

“No.” 

“Hardly, though it seems the easiest compromise. Thank you, First Enchanter.” 

* * *

* * *

Wynne barely suppresses the urge to flinch at the sight of her. 

Greagoir’s assessment is not entirely wrong. The girl is a _woman_ , there is no doubt, but the terror flooding her wide, doe-like eyes remind the older woman all too well of the frightened children the templars bring in. Her mouth opens as she glimpses Wynne and the templars towering behind her though no sound comes out and, as if catching herself, the imprisoned woman snaps her jaw shut, curling in on herself in an attempt to make herself seem smaller. Her hair is wild, dark, and visibly matted with knots. No doubt sticky with the dried blood Greagoir swore she’d been covered in. Not even a bath, then.

Disgraceful. 

“Hello,” Wynne keeps her voice soft, even. It hardly seems prudent to startle the poor thing more than necessary. “I am Senior Enchanter Wynne. Do you have a name?” 

The girl does not respond. Save for the shaking of her shoulders, there is little to indicate that she'd heard Wynne at all. 

“… You have been taken to Kinloch Hold, to Ferelden’s Circle,” she continues, at least hoping some information will sink in. “It is a place of…” _Safety_ seems such a cruel word, considering. “…learning for those of us gifted with magic.” 

This, at last, captures her attention. Her dark eyes flash with confusion, disbelief. 

“…Magic?”

“Yes. Like you, I am a mage.” 

“A… _mage_ …ha… haha…” A string of startled laughter bubbles out from between her lips, sounding strange and halted. Wynne wonders, for the first time, if Greagoir’s assumptions were entirely off the mark. “Magic.” And, then, under her breath. “… _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._ ” 

“You are... frightened.” 

“ _No shit_ ,” another barely intelligible whisper, muttered mostly to herself. 

There are few more vain attempts at conversation, but the girl is lost to her own thoughts and murmurings. 

In the end, Wynne takes one last look at this girl-woman, and she sees a lost cause. She allows herself a moment to mourn the potential talent lost and sweeps out of the dungeon without another word, the skirts of her robes billowing behind her along with traces of regret. 

But, things change frequently in dire times; expectations must either be heightened or lowered. It would not be long—eight years, at most— before a dark plague would befell Ferelden; a place in which heroes were, unbeknownst to many, in rather short supply as fate would have it. 

And someday, all of Thedas would come to know this madwoman as Kathryn Sawyer, Hero of Ferelden. 

Though, Wynne would always know her as the punchline of perhaps one of the Maker’s cruelest jokes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrow u paid for one MGiT AND GOT A SECOND ONE FREE! ( ͡ᵔ ͜ʖ ͡ᵔ)
> 
> also pt 1 of a double update bc... i feel like ppl are gonna deadass hate this so might as well get it all out at once -v-


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update 2/2. if you haven't read 1, this won't make sense probably.

* * *

I kind of expected Skyhold to be a shitshow. 

I _wasn’t,_ however, expecting the Commander of the Inquisition to openly gape at me as though he’d seen a ghost the minute I was ushered through the door.

“You— But _you’re_ —“ 

“Cullen?” Trevelyan asks, her tone impossibly gentle. Something I honestly didn’t think she was capable of. Within seconds, she's at his side. “Are you alright?” she presses with a concerned gaze, lifting a hand to rest comfortingly on his shoulder. It’s almost cute until her dark eyes flicker to me with deep ire in them like I’m to fucking blame. What did I do? I’ve said nothing! Literally just stepped through the door. 

And on that note… 

I back away slightly only to be caught by a hand at my shoulder holding me firmly, but not roughly, in place. 

And that’s when Cassandra gives me a look that plainly says ‘ _don’t fucking move_ ’ and I finally understand true fear. 

Cullen’s bulging eyes shut. All is quiet for a minute, save for the sound of his haggard breaths, and then, “I’m…fine.” 

“Are you certain?” inquires Thea warmly. “You may sit this out if you’d like. I could brief you on it later, it would be no trouble.“ 

“No…thank you… I’m fine,” he grits out unconvincingly. 

_Is this because of me…and you?_

Templars—former templars, even— are sensitive to magic, right? 

** it is not _impossible_ he is reacting to our bond, however…  **

Yeah, something about it rubs me the wrong way. He’d said _“You— you’re”._ If he’d just gone and assumed I was possessed, why wouldn’t he open with ‘ _hey, you, abomination fucko, listen here!_ ’ Right? Weird.   
****

** yes, i think the same. albeit, i would have worded it less vulgarly.  **

Another voice cuts in rigidly. “You were about to say something, were you not, Commander? …You see it, too.”   
****

“Leliana…”

It? _Wisdom_? 

“Inquisitor, my apologies. But it is imperative we gather as much information as possible.” 

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. 

Fuck hardened Leliana. Who the fuck did this. She’s so _scary_. 

As if hearing my thoughts, her sharp, cornflower blue gaze turns to me. Even without the excessive shadowing of her hood, her face is all angles, making her appear even more severe if possible. Her lips thin into a taut line, eyes becoming lidded with obvious skepticism. “Your name is Allison, correct?” 

I’m amazed it doesn’t come out as a whimper and respond, “Yes…” 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flinch from Cullen. 

“You claim to be of Avvar origin. Is this true?” 

_What do I do?_

I’m a terrible liar, she’ll read me to _filth_ —

** breathe.  **

I inhale.   
****

** … do not lie, but do not expand on the full truth.  **

_Excuse me?_  
****

“Yes,” I exhale shakily. Technically, I did _claim_ to be Avvar. That part is true. 

Next time, watch your wording, Nightingale. 

Despite my impressive feat, Leliana doesn’t appear convinced. Go figure. “Even the Avvar adopt surnames, to an extent. What is yours?” 

Trick question… I think. All the Avvar names have to do with their holds, or, like, their jobs, right? Or maybe I’m a presumptuous asshole who never paid close enough attention to lore. That seems pretty likely. 

“Uh, Finch…feather.” 

“Allison Finch-Feather,” Leliana repeats scathingly. 

“My father kept finches,” I defend, absolutely full of shit. “In a…coop. So yes. Finchfeather.” 

“And from which hold do you hail, Allison _Finch-Feather_?” 

I’m going to throw up. 

** relax. they cannot have possibly investigated all of the avvar holds in thedas. make up something that is within the realm of possibility.  **

In a brilliant bout of word-association coupled with my childhood resurfacing as I witness my life flashing threateningly before my eyes, I blurt out, “Starscream.”   
****

“ _Star-Scream_ … I see.” 

Oh my fucking god. 

** yes. quite.  **

Why the hell didn’t you shut me up? 

** i vastly overestimated your ability to speak under pressure. it will not happen again. it could prove…  **

Disastrous? Catastrophic?  _That’s what I’ve been trying to fucking tell you!_ I just named a fake Avvar hold after a goddamn _Transformer,_ and _you just let me_!   
****

** yes. unfortunate.  **

Understatement of the century, but okay.   
****

“Well,” states Leliana, an air of finality in her clipped tone. “I have come to the conclusion that you are an even worse liar than I’d predicted.”

Predicted? 

“Um, I’m not—“ 

“Josie,” she continues on as though I haven’t spoken at all. Okay, Ice Princess. Rude, much? “Do you have the documents I handed off to you earlier? The letters?” 

Josephine nods, hazel eyes nervously flickering towards me before meeting Leliana’s gaze once more. “Would you like me to go grab them from my office?” she asks, seeming particularly eager to be removed from the tense atmosphere of the room entirely. 

“Please.” 

“I’ll return shortly, then. Excuse me, everyone.” 

I watch her go, beautiful ruffles and all, feeling helpless.

We are so fucked. 

It’s maybe even more fucked up that for the first time I’ve defaulted to ‘we’ rather than ‘I’m’. Holy shit. So fucked. 

** if they truly saw you as a threat, they would have eliminated you by now.  **

I make a pained nose in the back of my throat because now even Wisdom doesn’t sound sure.   
****

“Allison,” begins Leliana ominously. “Have you a second name?”

“No, the Avvar…don’t do that.” Probably. 

“I’m only asking you once.” 

** breathe.  **

She stares me down, her expression unchanging. I fidget under the weight of it, wishing the ground would open up and just swallow me whole already. 

“...Kath,” I exhale, defeated. “My middle name is fucking Kath, okay?”   
****

She seems pleased, at least. “You are not Avvar.”

“No.” 

“Star-Scream hold does not exist.” 

“Well, it _could_.” The spymaster merely quirks a thinly plucked ginger brow in my direction, and I repress a shudder, instantly regretting my insuppressible urge to be a smart ass at the worst times. “…I don’t know, though. I doubt it.” 

“Where are you from?” For some reason, this time her voice lowers, softens. 

I don’t trust it. 

“Around,” I mumble. 

Someone sighs. It’s probably Trevelyan because her voice is the next to ring out. “This is going nowhere. We’ve already quite clearly discovered that she is a _liar_ as well as a high risk for demonic possession. Neither of those sit particularly well with me, Leliana. What more is there to be said?” 

Leliana ignores her. “Are you from Earth?” 

I freeze, because _what the fuck_? 

** oh.  **

_OH?_  
****

“Earth?” chime Trevelyan and Cassandra in unison, almost comedically.

But I just feel a slow coming dread. 

… _What?_

…. _the fuck?_

And if this were a 90’s sitcom, this would be about the point where there’s a record scratch and a freeze-frame, and a goofy ‘bet you’re wondering how I’ll get out of this one!’ thrown in the direction of the camera by the main character — but all I get is my vision flashing black, a hard floor catching my fall, and a resulting massive fucking headache. Cue the laugh track. Someone might as well find this cosmic mess of a joke amusing because I’m having a hard time of it. 

* * *

* * *

_Allie,_

I scowl at the paper crumpling, shaking, shifting between my fingers. I can’t stay still, and this is not real. There’s no fucking way. 

_You’re like me— I think. Maybe it’s inevitable that this letter finds you. Maybe it’s not. I hope… that is the case._

_This world is wonderful, magical even. But it’s also full of horrors I wouldn’t wish on anyone, least of all you._

_And I know you don’t like when I say things like that—that you’re like me. That you have your father’s eyes, or you have my nose, my smile. I know you don’t and I understand. You have this image of your parents and it’s complete with Anna and Ellis. I’d never want to change that because I know just what they mean to you._

_But if this letter gets to you—and I hope it never does— just let me say it this once, okay?_

_You have my smile, baby, but I’m praying to every god I know that your blood runs like your father’s and not mine._

** she loves you.  **

_Maybe._ I tear my eyes away from the letter, already feeling the burn of them. _But she was never my mother._    
****

“Your mother spoke fondly of you, whenever she had the chance,” says Leliana evenly, her expression conveying little.

“She gave birth to me. She gave birth to me and almost killed me,” I reply stiffly. “I don’t know how these things work here but that pretty much absolves her of any right to call herself my _mother_.” 

“Alright,” she extends placatingly. “Kathryn, then." 

“She doesn’t know me," I grit out, when she remains silent, clearly expecting a sentimental response to the idea that my mother was stomping around a fictional world, crowing my praises. I think the fuck not. 

“She certainly seemed to think she did,” is the calm response. “I can only imagine the thoughts running through your mind now. I will answer what questions I can… because it is what she would want.” 

My blood goes warm, I can feel it rushing to my face; the way it always does when I’m angry. I don’t really care if my skin goes splotchy, but Leliana eyes me cautiously. It’s almost vindicating. Almost. “What is she to _you_? Why do you even give a fuck?”

** mind yourself.  **

No. Fuck off.   
****

“She was a friend to me.”

“A friend, or a _friend_?” 

“A friend,” she reiterates, eyes narrowing. 

“How did you even—“ I sputter, trying to recollect myself and finding it awfully difficult amidst all the chaos and jumbled thoughts. How the fuck does this even happen? “When did you meet?” 

“Around the time the Fifth Blight was at its largest threat.” 

Of fucking course. 

“Where?” I manage through gritted teeth. 

“Lothering.” 

I’m gonna pass out again. 

** you will be fine. give yourself time to process.  **

I stay quiet for a while while Leliana peers at me over her clasped fingers under her chin. “… You know.”   
****

I chew at my nails, trying to fight the oncoming wave of nausea slowly taking over.

“I don’t know how it’s possible, but you _know_ ,” she repeats. “I can see it written plainly on your face. You’re troubled. Perhaps a little uncertain, but, you seem to have a grasp of what transpired. Tell me. Did Varric regale you with grand tales of the Hero of Ferelden on your journey?” 

Not quite. 

“No.” 

She leans back at the bite in my tone. “Then how?” 

“Can you…” I swallow, it hurts. I continue. “Can you tell me more? What was she doing in Lothering?” 

“Do you not know?” 

“Obviously not, if I’m asking.” 

“She was accompanied by two others. A witch and a Grey Warden. They were looking for support and supplies. They found, at least, the former.” 

_Alistair and Morrigan._

Un-fucking-believable. 

Of course my ditzy, unreliable and unstable birth mother would bag the role of Hero of Ferelden in my _favorite game_ while I got temporary spirit airbnb in this hell circus. Just my fucking luck. 

The fact I can even process that thought without actually losing my mind startles a laugh out of me. 

Leliana purses her lips. “It seems a good enough time as any for you to rest.” In other words, _you’re starting to scare even me_ , _you freak._ “Are you hungry?” 

“No.” I pause, my expression quickly growing uncomfortable. “Is she…” 

“Dead?” supplies the redhead curtly. “No. Not last I’d seen of her, and nothing has led me to believe otherwise in the time since.” 

“Where is she?” 

“I do not know.” And to be fair, it sounds like she’s telling the truth with how genuinely pissed off she looks about it. “We parted ways not long after the Blight and only kept in touch for a few years before I lost contact with her.” Seeing my eyes grow darker, angrier, she adds lightly, “There is someone I am in contact with who might know more.” 

“Who?” 

“You would have no way of knowing even if I told you,” she offers mildly, and I know a challenge when I hear one. 

She wants to know how much I know.

 _Fuck off._  

“Fine.” 

I can hazard a guess, anyway. Alistair, probably. If he’s… still a Warden. 

But if he’s a Warden, wouldn’t he be _here_? 

Is he King? 

** no.  **

**alistair is not king of ferelden.**  
****

An unpleasant thought strikes me, hitting me harder than I would have assumed it would.  
****

_…did you know?_

** no.  **

**my only knowledge on the matter was that the hero of ferelden originated as a mage from kinloch hold.**  
****

**… i am sorry. if it were within my capability, i would have spared you this hurt and confusion.**  
****

For some reason, I believe it.

I have to. I have to feel like someone’s on my side. Even if that someone is a spirit lodged in my unconscious and thus technically _me._

“One last question." Even though I have about a million. Leliana nods her permission. “Was she— Is she really a mage?” 

At that, the Nightingale laughs tinklingly, like a fairy. 

It feels like there’s a joke I’m seriously missing out on. 

* * *

* * *

And I don’t get the punchline. What I _do_ get is herded off to a small room, practically force fed a bowl of soup by an obviously anxiety-ridden scout, and an order to get myself to bed as soon as nightfall hits. 

Sleep, naturally, does not find me super easily. 

Go figure, right? 

I keep alternating between thoughts of ‘ _what if she fucked this up_ ’ or ‘ _this is so incredibly fucked up and ridiculous, I have to be dead_ ’ and once the existential dread hits me that my mother— _biological_ mother— was in a position in which she might have fucked Alistair, I furiously throw myself out of bed and wrap myself in a fluffy blanket I’d tossed at the end of my cot earlier. Fuck that. Fuck all of it. He was _my_  teenaged era fictional boyfriend first.

I pry open my door just enough to see if there’s a guard situated outside it. Of course there is. 

Can’t have any flight risks who know too much, can we, _Spymaster_? 

This is almost worse than immediately being written off as mostly inconsequential and, yet, a risk. No, you know what? This is definitely worse. 

_I can’t believe she’s alive._

She can't be.

I watched them put her into the ground. I _held her hand_ as they pulled the plug — _I_  —

— I apparently have a very small grasp on anything involving this fucking universe. 

** you feel as though your grief was wasted, but she was still kept far away from you. you still felt that loss. it is not invalidated by this.  **

Eighteen years I’d spent wasting time hating her, missing her, hating her again, ad nauseum —  eighteen years! And she’s _fucking alive_! Somehow!   
****

Alive and living a _fairytale_! 

** you know that is not true.  **

I don’t care. I hate her.   
****

** it is alright to be angry.  **

Thanks for the permission.   
****

** it is alright to be sad.  **

I’m not sad, I’m _pissed_.   
****

** it is not a weakness that you are both all at once. you are human, this is what you do. feel.  **

Well, I _don’t_. Maybe normal people do, but I don’t. I repress and resent. That’s all.   
****

** that is not healthy, and you know that.  **

Who gives a fuck.   
****

I lift my head and glower at the door. There’s nothing I’d like more than to get shitfaced right now, but that fucking _guard_. I slam an angry fist into the door, over and over, until a timid response echoes out “please…stop that…” 

“I want out. I can’t sleep.” 

“… I’m not supposed to—“ 

“Please,” I rest my forehead against the door, my throat feeling raw from stress. “I’ll be good, I promise." 

“I’m sorry.” 

My fist slams against it once more, leaving my skin stinging. I don’t care. “ _Please_!” Silence. The lump in my throat is the only warning I get before my eyes are spilling over with tears and I turn around, my back against the door, sliding all the way to the floor and landing with an embarrassing hiccup. I don’t cry. I don’t want to cry, not for _her._  

** then cry for yourself, just this once.  **

As usual, I outdo myself on this one.   
****

I sob myself to the point of exhaustion and pass out on the cold floor, wrapped in only that furry blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pt 2
> 
> tfw when ur OC is so disinterested in a game's politics the only way u can get her invested is by making her mom her own personal antagonist 
> 
> also, the timeline for this probably makes 0 fucking sense i'm playing god but i will try to explain as best i can
> 
> 1993, Allison is born: Kathryn is 18  
> 2001, the accident/8 years before Origins: Kathryn is 25, Allison is 7  
> Origins end: Kathryn is 34  
> DAII end/Inquisition start: Kathryn is 41/42, Allison is 25
> 
> Origins still came out in 2009 which means Kathryn has no way of having played them/knowing anything about Thedas despite it technically existing (?) #multiverse theory #idfk 
> 
> this is a long ass note but 1 more thing before you go: i'm leaving the link to the strawpoll up at least until the next update 
> 
> if you have a strong opinion on the matter and haven't chimed in yet: [ here u go ](https://www.strawpoll.me/16063679)


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

I wake in bed. It takes a minute for my thoughts to wade through the grogginess, for my brain to catch up, but when it does— I scream. 

Loudly. A lot. A bit excessively, maybe, but it feels justified to me. 

**are you done?**

Why am I here? I fell asleep _on the floor_!   
****

Now that I’m really paying attention, it seems someone had the audacity to tuck me in. Like a toddler.

**don’t worry about that.**

See, it’s when you say shit like _that_ , that I really feel like worrying is my only viable option. But.. okay. Let’s pretend like it isn’t totally absurd that someone _snuck_ into this room and _tucked_ me into bed after I had a mental breakdown. Let’s pretend that’s _fine_. Sure, cool. I run a hand through my hair, slightly startled to find it loose rather than in the tight ponytail I had it in last night.   
****

**you would have gotten a pressure headache.**

This is really just serving to creep me out further, just so you know.   
****

“You’re awake.”

I scream. Again. This is kind of becoming normal, I think, as I stumble back, pulling the bed covers up to cover half of my face like that’ll save me from any intruders. Sunlight catches in my eyes, pooling in through the window and I can just barely make out the shape of the creeper in question perched on the window sill. I slowly lower the sheets, sudden relief causing my shoulders to go slack. “Oh, it’s you… Hi.” 

“Hello,” Cole replies, head tilting in confusion. 

“Were you the one that put me to bed?” 

“Yes. You were on the floor. It was cold. You’re used to the warmth. Dry warmth. So I helped.” 

“…Um, thanks, I guess.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“You haven’t been, like…watching me, have you?”

Another curious head tilt.

“Like…sleep…” 

“No, there are others to help. I help and they forget. But I knew you wouldn’t forget, so I came back. Being remembered is… strange. Not bad, but strange.” 

Oh no, he’s sweet. 

And then I remember something unpleasant with slow dawning irritation. Something decidedly _less_ sweet. Or someone, rather. “Weren’t you… kicked out?” 

“The Inquisitor cannot chase out what she cannot remember. Or catch. I’m fast, and she forgets.” 

A startled chuckle escapes me. “Huh…I wish that would work for me.” 

“No. You don’t,” his cheek dimples, his ridiculously oversized hat tilting upwards so it no longer covered his eyes—they sparkle.  “You’re very sad… but you don’t want to forget. Forgetting means losing and you are tired of losing things; of thinking of things that were lost.” 

I smile awkwardly. Nothing like picking at a wound that is still very fresh. Still…not really his fault.  “You’re very wise.” 

“You’re the wise one,” he responds matter-of-factly. “One of you, I mean.” 

 _Ouch._  

“The other is more like me,” he smiles with teeth; in a flash it’s gone. “Looking—searching, frantic, worried—anger? Why _anger_?” His eyes cloud over briefly before they are masked entirely by the brim of his hat. “You won’t forget,” he tells me seriously. “And you will see me. They won’t.” 

In other words: _don’t break my cover, bitch._ Or something to that effect, I guess. 

“Bye, Cole.” 

The spirit boy smiles again, quick, before turning and leaping out the window. 

**are you feeling better?**

...Hm. 

* * *

* * *

My legs lead while my brain sets itself on fire. Somehow, I end up here. 

 _“_ You look—“ Solas seems to reconsider his next words very carefully, eyeing my murderously grim expression with an amount of wariness I wasn’t aware he was capable of emoting. Pushing aside some tomes on his desk, stacking them neatly to the side, he gestures for me to have a seat and I dump myself into the chair across from him. “I take it you did not sleep well,” he amends.

I roll my eyes before unceremoniously slumping over further, pulling my knees up to my chest; the way I’d sit at the computer until my mom yelled at me that I’d ruin my posture. Well, posture’s already ruined. Scoliosis confirmed. Bigger problems on the horizon. Solas appears as though he wants nothing more than to tell me to get my dirty shoes off his chair but somehow refrains. There are a million questions to ask here, maybe, but I really don’t want to touch _any_ of it right now. 

“Did you know Cole’s still here?” I ask, instead. 

His entire face clouds over with _something_. Concern, possibly? I don’t know, but he becomes impossibly rigid in a matter of seconds and I kind of regret my diversion. Mildly. But I’ll still take his paranoia over having to force myself to sort through my own racing thoughts. “You have met?” he guesses with a deceptively even tone. 

“I had a very interesting wake up call,” I explain with a shrug of the shoulders. Then, because I don’t like the way he’s scrutinizing me, I ask, “He’s… not like me, is he? I mean, he said we were, but it’s _different_.” 

Solas nods slowly. “The difference being that you still retain… you.” 

“And he doesn’t?” 

“Cole _is_ a spirit,” he answers sternly. “He may possess a body but it does not change his nature. Nothing ever will.” 

“But… how is it different? He’s possessing a body, okay, but— like, a _dead_ body? As in there’s _no one_ in there?” 

_No._

_No._

_You didn’t want to talk about this, you fucking idiot._

I bite my tongue, not at all liking the calculating glint that forms in the elf’s eyes at my question. “You are concerned,” he notes. “To answer your question— yes, the body Cole possesses once held the life of a human. And it holds life _still_ , as is its purpose, just…that of a different kind. If you are worried that you are in a similar condition, allow me to assure you that is almost certainly not the case. You remain autonomous, do you not?” 

“I mean… yeah.” 

“I imagine if you were truly dead that we would not be having this conversation at all,” the mage surmises bluntly.  

But…

 _No._ We’re not going there.

_She was dead. She was dead, and now she’s not._

_What makes you think it’s any different for you?_

I sink lower into the seat, hiding my quickly darkening expression behind my knees. 

“You have questions, and I would answer them if you’d only ask instead of hiding like a child.” 

“I don’t wanna,” I mumble.  

**you will never find the answers you seek by avoiding your problems.**

Irritated, I lift my gaze to peer upwards and sidelong, trailing along the few murals he’s finished so far. I note, belatedly, that the Adamant wall remains blank. In fact, all the walls beyond the destruction of Haven are bare. I feel like I should be more impressed and starstruck by the sight of them, considering I’d played Lavellan and suffered through his romance only all too willingly, but—  I feel nothing. I’ve been faced with terrifying, amazing and magical things that _shouldn’t_ be real and I… I can’t enjoy any of it. I can’t enjoy any of it because I could only be convinced that this was all real until _her_.   
****

Maybe I could’ve made sense of it before, if I really stretched my imagination to its limit. Maybe. But the minute _she_ decided to pluck herself out of the area of my brain that was filed under ‘ _dead, gone forever_ ,’ and plopped herself right into the middle of my incredibly vivid fever dream— a place in which I should have, even unconsciously, not been able to form any connection to her—

—well, _hello_ , Existential Crisis. I’ve been expecting you. You're fucking late. 

“I like your murals,” I say, voice cracking on every other word. “You’re very talented.” 

And he’s only had an odd several thousand years to practice.

S _TOP_. 

_Not now, not now!_

Why did I even come here? 

I wasn’t paying attention, too busy thinking, and — 

** you need help. **

** you cannot hope to process all of this on your own. **  
****

Of fucking course.  
****

Of course it was you.

“Thank you,” replies Solas, innocuously enough, but at the sound of his voice my entire body jolts, kicking instinctively at the table in front of me, sending my chair sliding, screeching across the floor.

His brows furrow, and my own eyes widen in horror. 

This is _your_ fault— _all of it._ Without you— without those _stupid fucking mages — none of this would have happened!_

** you need to— **

I _need to_ stop listening to you — and _everyone_ — because _nothing makes any fucking sense_!   
****

My chest burns. I know this feeling. I hate it, and I don’t want it, but I want even less for this situation to escalate any further so I bolt clumsily, my legs breaking into a run and carrying me out the door, barely catching Solas calling after me with a faint, echoing “ _Wait, Allison_ —“ 

By the time my legs are satisfied, my lungs are burning in protest. 

_You asthmatic dumbass. You did this to yourself._

Wisdom is quiet. I can feel the lingering hurt my words caused, and it fucking sucks because in what universe is that _my_ problem? In what world does it make sense to have arguments with yourself that leave both of you feeling like the victim? I don’t even get to feel sorry for myself the right way because…I feel sorry for Wisdom, too. 

Neither of us chose this. 

And I _hate_ it. 

I don’t know where I am. I had been running so fast, so hard, that I wasn’t keeping track or counting doors, or hallways, or staircases— not that I could have even if I’d thought to. If I could still manage to get lost on a highway in broad daylight with a GPS talking to me like I’m five on my phone, I honestly stand no chance in a medieval castle built by _fucking elves_ over a thousand years ago who had nothing _but_ time to waste on staircases that lead to nowhere and grand entrance halls for their dinner party orgies or whatever the fuck it is they did with their immortality. Orgies seem the logical route. 

Slightly unhinged sounding laughter reverberates off the walls. It takes longer than it should for me to realize it came out of _my_ mouth. 

** do you understand now? you need help. there is nothing wrong with admitting that. **

My jaw snaps shut, clenches.   
****

_Go away._

I don’t know what it says about my current mental state that I’m a little disappointed when Wisdom does not respond. 

* * *

* * *

The thing about Skyhold is that it’s impossible to stay lost. And that kind of sucks majorly when you’re a headcase beyond comprehension desperately in need of some serious alone time. I expertly avert my gaze from the many curious passerby who openly gawk at my tear streaked cheeks and odd hair. Some of the really brave ones try to start conversations with me; some dumb ones mistake me for a servant and attempt to order me around—that only lasts until the third one to approach me earns a heated glare for their trouble and backs down, cowering. 

Apparently someone alerted the higher ups that there was a messy, angry looking child storming the ramparts because it isn’t long until they send someone to collect me and presumably put me in time-out. 

“Get down before you fall and break every bone in your body." 

I grimace. 

“ _Now_ , Allison.” 

“I’m not five.” 

“You could have fooled me.” Leliana claws her fingers around my wrist and _tugs_ me off the wall I’d been aimlessly walking the length of. At the force of the obtrusion, I feel my head begin to spin, feel thoughts begin to flitter in and out like angry whispers at just the sight of her. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it, but she doesn’t seem to care. “I have someone you might be interested in meeting. My other contacts remain, but this man is here at present and, as I understand it, knew your mother as Warden Commander for a time. I’ll only take you, of course, if you are quite finished pouting?” 

“ _Pouting_ ,” I repeat, too tired to actually be angry. For one slightly delirious moment, I think she’s referring to Anders. “What makes you think I want to talk about her?” 

“You seemed curious from a detached angle,” answers Leliana evenly. “I had figured you’d prefer talking to someone who knew of her in a purely professional manner." 

I bite my lip. But if it’s anything like the game, even those who only came across the Warden for a second are borderline obsessive and kiss-assy. Assuming, that is, you’re not a complete tool— which I can’t be sure _isn’t_ the case here, honestly. It’s probably fucking Stroud, anyway. I exhale, “Fine.” It comes out a little more snappishly than I intended and Leliana raises a brow. “…Fine,” I repeat, mutteringly. 

She purses her lips and says nothing, just turns on her heel and heads up to the higher levels of the ramparts. 

I follow with only a trace of reluctance. 

“I would only ask that you behave yourself and present the Inquisition in a manner befitting a sanctioned guest,” she states directly. 

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ve come to find that a person’s behavior is the least difficult thing about them to change, given proper incentive.” 

Well, that’s _not_ terrifying at all.

“I’ll be sweet as candy,” I promise with only a small inflection of sardonicism. 

“Oh, I am sure,” she replies, matching my tone perfectly.  “They are just up ahead—“ 

Another hand grasps my wrist from behind, I let out an embarrassing yelp and — “No,” a familiar voice breathes by my ear. “Angry. Still. Not…ready. This is not right. Time, wrong. Place, wrong. Heart, still hurting. Wrong. Not yet. I’m sorry.” 

“Co—“ I begin, only to find myself dragged away hastily by the arm. 

“There are people only you can help,” he says, by way of answer. I blink stupidly. “He is one. But not now. You are the same, too alike. Right now you cannot help. You’ll only hurt.” 

“What the _fuck_ —“ Leliana is going to kill me. And then she’s going to kill him, this confusing _, precious child_. 

“I will make her forget,” he says. “She has to. She sees you and thinks of someone else. She doesn’t mean to, but she hurts the more she pushes. You don’t have to accept it… Just… run, fast, like me. If she gets fast, then get faster.” 

We stop, with my lungs burning and Cole ducking into a shadowy hallway, gesturing for me to follow. “… I don’t understand,” I tell him plainly between hard breaths. 

“You don’t have to. You just have to listen. But not to her.” His ears perk up almost like a golden retriever's. After a moment of silence, his cloudy blue eyes flicker to directly meet mine. “You know—better than anyone, better than her. It’s there. Inside. You already know, you just have to find it.” 

“And what is _that_ supposed to mean?” 

“I told you. You know. Now, find it.” 

“And I told you I don’t—“ 

“You are afraid. That’s why. You’re trying to protect yourself— safety, denial, repeat, repeat, repeat— but you came here together. The Wise one is scared, too. Just smarter. You can run from everything else but… not them.” 

And there it is.

The guilt. 

“I don’t…” 

“You don’t _mean_ to hurt, either. It’s okay. The Wise one is not mad.” 

I flinch. 

** it’s alright. i understand. **

… Yeah.  
****

Cole smiles. “Another thing. You’re afraid to touch it, but it’s there; humming, patient, but _loud_. If it screams, scream back. It won’t scream anymore. You’re the one in control.”  

I blink until Wisdom helpfully supplies, ** magic. ** 

 _Ugh._ “Did Solas put you up to this?” I demand. 

“You don’t want to be like her. You won’t. You’ll be safer—you have _friends_. She was alone—cold, empty, guarded—eight years and then some. No trust. Not really.” At my grimace, Cole’s smile dims. “… You know things she didn’t, _couldn’t._ If you want to make things better, you can’t be afraid anymore. At least… not alone. And you aren’t.” 

** this sounds awfully familiar.**

Shut up. I get it, you’re the _Wise one_ and I’m the emotionally stunted idiot. 

“Solas wants the Wise one safe. The Wise one wants you safe. Magic will keep you safe but only if you let it.” 

_Ugh._

** why is it that you will listen when he says these things and not me?**

Because he’s way cuter, no offense.   
****

** …some taken. **

Despite myself, I smirk.   
****

“Oh,” Cole blinks.

And then, suddenly, I’m being swallowed up in warm arms, a hand falling awkwardly at the back of my head as a way of pulling me in. I inhale sharply, startled. “You are used to being comforted when you are afraid. Your…parents always took care of you. But no one here understands. They see you, but not all of you. You just wanted a hug.” Shutting my eyes at the mention of my parents that are entirely beyond my reach, I tighten my hold around his waist. “You will be okay. I know it. You do, too. Somewhere.” 

“Thank you,” I mumble against his shirt. 

“We’re the same,” he replies certainly. “We can help, and helping is what matters." 

 ** you need not endure alone. please do not try to again. **  
****

… Yeah, okay.  
****

I lean in, desperate for warmth just for a little longer. When Cole’s chin lowers to rest on my head, I can swear I hear my father whisper, ‘ _One day at a time, Allie. The world isn’t going anywhere and neither are you._ ’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm tagging ships as promised cos YESSSSSS won on the polls. pls note the emphasis on 'Eventual' and '#slowburn'. now we all suffer together. ty, ty, ty. <3 
> 
> also my actual brain in the process of writing this chapter:  
>   
>  **dragon age writers:** it's really simple most of solas' dialogue is in iambic pentameter. it's very clever, see—  
>  **me:** or i could just write him like he's always 2 secs away from accidentally letting a FUCK slip out  
>  **dragon age writers:**... um ok. well, cole's dialogue is pretty intriguing too—  
>  **me:** no he's a little troll who occasionally says something profound by accident   
> **dragon age writers:**  
>  **me:** great. good talk


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

_If it screams, scream back._

Oh, I’m about to scream alright. 

J.K. Rowling lied to me. There’s nothing fun about magic. There’s no whimsical wand waving, or silly spell incantations. There’s just a whole lot of nerdy ass elf breathing down your neck ‘till it feels like all your limbs have simultaneously fallen asleep and glowy shit appears sometimes, if you’re lucky. The first time I managed to conjure said ‘glowy shit’ I promptly _noped the fuck out_ and fell ass backwards out of my seat while Solas watched on with a pinched expression not unlike the one my father wore the entire three months he’d spent teaching me to drive. Or… attempting to, anyway. 

“You are practicing healing spells. They are not going to hurt you.” 

“I just… don’t like how it feels, okay? It’s like… tiny bugs crawling all over and under my skin. Gross.” 

“Well, you will have plenty of time to get used to it. In fact, we have all day. Again.” 

Ugh. 

Drawing from your mana supply, as it turns out, is excruciatingly uncomfortable. At least for someone like me, you know, who has no idea what the fuck they’re doing. Summoning another small burst of healing magic, or what I _think_ is healing magic, I feel it return full force; that chest constricting sensation that puts an instant grimace on my face. My fingertips begin glowing a faint yellow, though, so, I guess… mission complete. Or something. 

“Are you not entertained?” I ask my audience of one vexed elf with outstretched arms. 

I might be going slightly stir crazy. It’s totally fine. 

“The summoning is not the issue,” he remarks flatly. “The issue is that you still cannot project it further than your own body. Though a staff might help with that… _most_ mages can manage without when pressed.” 

“Have we not already established I’m not _most mages_?” 

Solas frowns. “You should not become comfortable with making excuses for yourself,” he warns. 

“But I’m _so_ good at it.” 

“Furthermore, _I_ do not feel comfortable allowing you to move forward onto elemental magic until I’m certain you won’t accidentally set yourself on fire due to lack of control. And similarly, the Spymaster will not allow you out of her sight until you have proven capable of at least being able to defend yourself. If you ever wish to leave Skyhold, I would suggest you begin approaching this a bit more seriously.” His tone is so stern I have to suppress the urge to laugh even though very little about any of this is _actually_ funny. 

A little help? 

**he will know.**

Soooo… be subtle?   
****

**you are capable enough on your own. you should trust yourself more.**

More like I’m just lazy, but okay. Point received. Note to self: don’t ask a spirit of Wisdom to help you cheat in arbitrary tasks, they probably won’t appreciate it.   
****

“Would this even be enough to help anyone?” I ask, glancing curiously down at my glowing fingertips. “You know, assuming it works on other people at all.”

Solas’ shoulders rise and fall in answer. “Perhaps it would be enough to sooth a mild headache or the beginnings of a head cold. It largely depends on intent.” 

“Uh? Explain, please?” 

_Did I just acquire a built-in, all-cure for fucking hangovers?_

**your priorities never fail to amaze me.**  

“Right now you are merely casting for the sake of casting. True healing requires deep concentration and some knowledge of the anatomy of that which you are attempting to heal.” 

Oh… _oh no_. 

He smirks at the slow dawning horror on my face. “Precisely why I do not trust you rushing into the school of destruction just yet. Imagine.” 

“Yikes.” 

“Yes. Quite.” 

I hum, and then, “ _Do_ you plan on letting me practice on someone else, like, eventually?” 

He makes a face.

“Wow. Ye of little faith.” 

“Your presence at Skyhold is already drawing unnecessary attention. I would rather not attract more.” 

I guess that’s true enough. Leliana’s done her best to quell rumors so far surrounding my abrupt arrival amidst the Inquisitor’s party but still… people talk. And even _she_ can’t really get away with killing people just for having big mouths and not being able to mind their own business. The diplomatic response, I think, ended up falling mostly on Josephine’s shoulders. I’m pretty sure she’s telling people I’m a war orphan from the Anderfels now. 

“I bet Cole would help.” 

His eyes narrow dourly. “Yes… because combining two unknown entities instead of merely one for the sake of experimentation sounds like a spectacular idea.” He gestures with a hand. “Summon.” 

I pout but oblige, wiggling my glowy fingers in the air in a mocking wave. 

“Do you feel your mana pool depleting?” 

“Um…”

** are you fatigued?  **

“Nope,” I reply, popping the ‘p’. 

“Well, that is something, at least. I’d worried your origins would indicate some abnormalities regarding your reserves, but it would appear those concerns were unfounded. Your inability to cast remotely is a mild inconvenience though not an insurmountable one— I will have a staff requisitioned for you in the morning. Have you a preference?” 

“Make it look badass?” 

Solas sighs. 

* * *

* * *

“Look at you, sunshine. You almost look like a full fledged mage, you’re just missing the sour puss expressio— oh, there it is.” 

I twirl my stand-in staff faux-menacingly in response. Putting anything in my hands that’s longer than, like, a foot is just asking for trouble so the threat is not completely empty— I’d already accidentally whacked at least three Chantry sisters in the head on the way here— and the real one is still in the works, or so I’ve been told. (Apparently, it’s having another half-inch shaved off. For totally un-assailed-Chantry-sister-related reasons. Naturally.) Varric chuckles at my enthusiasm, but it isn't until I catch a glimpse of the large pack strapped to his back along with Bianca as he expertly avoids getting smacked in the face that I find myself asking, “You’re leaving?” 

He nods. “Duty calls.” 

I try to appear nonchalant as I press, “Where are you headed?” 

** subtle, you are not.  **

Okay, thanks for the input I didn’t ask for, Yoda.   
****

****i am called wisdom.**  **

Wisdom, you are called. Sarcasm you do not get. 

****...** **

I swear I feel the exasperation. 

Varric sighs very dramatically at the innocent inquiry. “Some place with lots of sand that’ll wind up in my shoes and every damn crevice of my body it isn’t welcome in _—_ which is all of them _—_ I’m sure.” 

I blink, mentally going through the catalogue of maps from Inquisition and coming up blank. There was that one place, I guess? _But isn’t that where..._

A hand slaps itself onto my shoulder and I practically leap forward with an embarrassing yelp. “You didn’t tell me you’ve found yourself a brand new stray mage, Varric. I’m hurt.” 

That voice… 

_The Western Approach._

That’s where Hawke and his Warden contact figure out Corypheus is the one manipulating the Grey Wardens, albeit through some other verbose dickhole. I feel a little dizzy. _It’s not Alistair. Leliana pretty much confirmed it wasn’t Alistair._ _Why are you so fucking pressed? If it’s Loghain, then he’s about to get what he’s had coming to him since pretty much forever and— Stroud— Well, Stroud would be kind of sad, but isn’t he supposed to be the easier decision, anyway?_

That’s fucked up. He’s a _person_ here. You’re not sitting behind a screen anymore, dipshit. 

** you need to calm yourself.  **

Calm myself? In _this_ dumpster fire of a timeline?   
****

I don’t think so.

“Bit squirrelly, isn’t she? Gone quite pale.” The same hand plants itself in my hair, rustling it. In any other situation, I’d probably tell the perpetrator to fuck off. But who tells Hawke to fuck off? _Who_? 

Instead, I pry the hand from my head, allowing myself a minute to ruminate on the fact that for .4 seconds I was holding hands with the Champion of Kirkwall, before I let it drop. “For future reference,” I’m amazed my voice comes out even relatively steady, considering. “The hair’s off limits.” 

Hawke smirks. And god, he’s so _beardy_. 

 _“_ Ah, Hawke meet Sunshine. Sunshine, meet Hawke.” 

“Sunshine,” he repeats. “Hmm. Well, it certainly speaks to your sunny disposition.” Another smirk, loftier. “Has the cheerful young lady a name suited to her radiant personality?” 

I’ve said approximately like, seven words to this prick. Purple Hawke was absolutely a mistake. 

“Allison,” I respond flatly. 

“Alli- _sun_ , even,” shoots back Hawke and I hate that it’s taken him all of two minutes to win me over completely. 

Varric gives me a knowing look. “He has that effect on everyone.” 

“That kind of power seems dangerous.” 

“Oh, it is,” remarks Hawke smugly. 

“As dangerous as it is irritating,” a new voice cuts in rigidly.

I blink, turning and— 

— an uncomfortable, burning sort of unease washes over me at the entrance. That face— I’d probably not be able to recognize it if not for the mirror-image of it standing next to me, just…beardier. The eyes are different, too. Blue, like ice, and guarded, whereas Hawke’s are a warm brown, flooded with good-natured mischief. And yet, none of that serves to fray my nerves so much as the Griffon proudly emblazoned on the chestplate of his bulky armor. 

Goddamn it. _Are you fucking kidding me?_

Where the fuck is Loghain? Or Alistair? Or Stroud? I’ll take mother dearest strolling through the front gates at this point. 

** i had warned you not to base your assumptions on previous knowledge. this world differs from the story you knew.  **

This is so fucked. 

So, so fucked. 

“She’s gone pale again. Look, I know I’m the better looking brother, but the lad’s already got a complex—“ 

“Oh, shut up.” 

“You alright there, sunshine?” 

I blink. 

Am I alright? 

** why does this alarm you so?  **

Because.   
****

It’s— wrong. This isn’t—

_Hawke’s already lost so much. And now he’s about to lose either his own life or his fucking brother’s and—_

** breathe. **

I do.   
****

In every world state I’d played Inquisition with, Carver was already dead, anyway. This—

— _isn’t a game, anymore, dumbass._

“I have to,” I mumble, stutteringly. “…go. Um… It was nice meeting you.” Not really, though. “Bye.” 

Not my problem. Not my problem. Not my problem.

I catch myself halfway down the hall, turning on the heels of my feet, spluttering, “Be safe, Varric!” with a mildly manic wave before turning back around and hauling ass out of there. 

_Whew._

** that was legitimately painful to witness.  **

Fuck off. 

* * *

* * *

I pull on a strand of flaxen hair, folding it over the last. “Keep your head still.” 

“The magic is helping. A little, but not enough. There’s more. You want to do more, _be_ more.” 

“You’re fidgeting,” I complain. And also sort of dredging up bullshit I don’t actually want to think about. 

“Sorry.” He stills. “But it’s true.” 

“Maybe, but you don’t have to say it.” 

“Yes. I do. If I don’t, you won’t listen. Not to yourself; not to the Wise one, either.” A pause, then. “It’s not your mess. Whatever she did— it wasn’t to leave you with shattered, broken pieces to pick up. That’s how you feel. Sometimes.” 

I stay silent, finishing off the braid and tying it with a leather strap. I pat his back to let him know it’s done and for my efforts I’m rewarded with a close-mouthed smile as soon as he turns. “Your turn,” he says. My shoulders slump as I situate myself accordingly. “…But it’s not,” adds Cole while sectioning parts of my hair off from the top of my head. “You aren’t taking turns—this isn’t a game. You’re not a player, you’re a person, mostly. Don’t forget.”

I huff. 

“I’m right. You agree. You just won’t admit it out loud, maybe you can’t. That’s okay. I hear it.” 

“You really are a walking, talking fortune cookie, aren’t you?” 

Confusion laces his tone, adorably. “I’m not a sweet.” 

“That’s debatable.” 

There’s a few moments of peaceful silence until a knock sounds at the door. “Solas,” states Cole. 

“It’s unlocked,” I call, far too lazy to even attempt the three foot walk. 

The door creaks open and in walks an exhausted looking elf-man. “I thought I might find you here,” he regards Cole sternly. Then his eyes flicker to the sight before him, seeming to really take it all in. I don’t know what wholesome sleepovers in Thedas are supposed to look like but I guess seeing two (mostly) grown ass adults braiding each other’s hair in a blanket fort on the floor is not a concept he’s had a whole lot of time to become accustomed to. 

“Do you see what kind of bonding experiences your bold fashion statement is costing you?” I ask at the same time Cole suggests, “You can join us. We have sweets. Pastries. Not me.” 

The door shuts itself promptly. 

“Sheesh, what’s his problem?” 

Cole hums. “He’s fond. It has been a long time.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweating*


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

It’s been three days since the Inquisitor and her party left for the Western Approach. I’ve had a lot of time to think. Too much, some might say. Solas still has me spending a majority of my mornings practicing healing spells on thin air and studying through apprentice(child)-level medical tomes—yes, that’s what he called them. _Tomes_. D &D who? Somewhere out there in the universe, my group DM is crying because my goofy ass is unworthy of living out her ultimate fantasy of prancing among elves— okay, one fucking nerd elf— and waving a magic wand — a staff that is actually legitimately too big for me— and living in, essentially, an apocalyptic wonderland of magical bullshit. 

Anyway, it’s fine. Everything’s fine. Because with all that time I mentioned— I’ve made a list. And lists make everything better! 

_Curse My Bleeding Heart: A List_

  1. _ nobody’s getting left in the fade. that's it_
  2. _~~except Maybe the mega bitch inquisitor~~_
  3. ~~_but only if sacrifices prove to be necessary!! god_~~
  4. ~~_divine vivienne…. yeah, over my literal cold, dead body_~~
  5. ~~_same for divine leliana actually_~~
  6. ~~_i hate all the divine options._~~ _better idea : dismantle the chantry _
  7. _chargers have to live_ ~~ _(if they’re even recruited.)_ _i don’t make the rules but i should_~~
  8. _if cole ever decides he wants to be more human i’m in. ride or die. fuck the egg agenda. egg-genda rather ~~i'm not fucking funny~~_
  9. _~~if cullen is taking lyrium cut that shit out maybe ?~~  alternative hot take: stay the fuck away from him because his girlfriend makes you wanna piss yourself idiot_
  10. _Learn Enough Magic To Not Be Useless: A Concept. ...a good one? who knows_



I said lists make everything better— I didn’t say they had to be organized or coherent, okay? I feel better, at least. 

Next order of business: Get competent enough that Leliana will trust me enough to let me leave Skyhold. 

**it will not be easy.**

No shit.   
****

But there’s really no other option aside from sitting back and letting everything go to shit— so, nope!

“…You wish to engage in combat,” Solas iterates painfully and insultingly slowly, drawing out the words as if to convince me I’m an idiot for speaking them in the first place. His steely eyes scrutinize my own twitchy expression before he audibly exhales. “You aren’t ready.” 

“Yes I am.” _I have to be._ “I can— I can sort of heal minor injuries now, and as long as no one’s _actually_ trying to kill me, I’m pretty sure I can take care of myself—“ 

“That is precisely the issue,” he says sternly. “On the field, there will _only_ be others trying to ‘actually’ kill you.” 

“I’m not asking to go out on the field.” _Yet_. “I’m asking for a chance.” 

Another guarded look and then, “I watched you keel over in your own sick over the corpse of a man who would have seen you dead, if he’d not been incapacitated himself first. I felt you weep at my back, silently, over it, in fact. When I say you are not ready, I do not mean that I consider you incompetent—merely naive. You are now in a world where that naiveté will get you killed.” 

“Me,” I ask, biting my lower lip. “Or Wisdom?” 

Solas’ expression softens a fraction. “I’d rather not lose a new friend, nor an old one. And I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I value one of your lives over the other. It seems equally pointless as, for the moment, they are currently one and the same.” 

_But it’s true, isn’t it?_

If Wisdom wasn’t lodged directly into my unconscious, I wouldn’t be standing here. 

Well, there’s probably a lot of ‘ _ifs_ ’ I could argue at this point. 

None of that matters, though. Not right now, at least. 

“I have to tell you something.” 

** really? **

Does it look like he’s going to be convinced otherwise?   
****

** you are full of surprises, as of late. **

You don’t disapprove.   
****

** no. i do not. **

At least that leaves one of us without any doubts.   
****

Solas raises a brow, and I exhale deeply. “You probably aren’t going to like it,” I warn.

“I suppose that will remain up for debate until I have heard it,” he allows. 

“…I know.” 

“Hm?” 

“This world— when I told you I was from someplace else, I didn’t…tell you that… _this one_ isn’t completely unfamiliar to me.” 

“The Frostbacks,” he reasons, “You knew that Avvar settle there, commonly. I already gathered you retained some knowledge of Thedas—“ 

“Not some. _Most_ , if not all.” A little arrogant, but not completely incorrect. I guess. Some stuff has probably already changed too much for me to count on it… but, from what I’ve seen so far, the timeline is, at least, similar to the events of the game. 

Solas leans back, his movement stilted as if burned. “…I see.” 

“I told you… you weren’t going to like it.” 

“Allison,” his tone is sharp. “Have you told this to anyone else?” 

“…No.” 

Though Leliana has to suspect because of my huge, dumb mouth. 

“And you are _certain_ you’ve held this knowledge since before Wisdom was bound to you?” 

I blink. 

“Um… yeah, I’m pretty sure.” 

His grey-blue eyes skim my face, evidently looking for any traces of uncertainty or a lie. “…I doubt you would be able to tell the difference, even if that were not true. Very well. What is it you plan to do, then? With this knowledge you claim to have?” 

I shrug meekly. “I don’t know. Something. Anything.” And then, I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Um… there’s one more thing. It’s kind of related to how I got here. I think. Maybe. It could be… I don’t know.” 

“What is it?” 

“My… birth mother. She—she’s here, too. I think she has been since…she died, in my world?” 

Solas freezes. 

“I know, it’s fucking weird— _but_ —“ 

“Allison,” his voice comes out uneven; the sound of it makes me flinch. “Do not share this with anyone else—“ 

“I really wasn’t planning to.” I cut him off. “And even if I was, the look you’ve got on your face right now would convince me that’s a pretty shitty idea.” 

“How did you even…?” 

“Leliana. She knew her. I think Cullen did, too, but I’m not super interested in exploring the perspective of a schoolboy templar who probably had the hots for her— um—“ 

“You’re rambling.” 

“I’m—“ _scared._ Understatement. 

I thought it would be okay. That Solas would listen and tell me everything would be okay; that he would assure me that this is even vaguely normal. But it’s obviously not and I _knew_ that, somewhere. I just wanted him to lie to me. I just wanted to lie to myself, I guess. 

“If you truly wish to learn to defend yourself properly, I won’t stop you.” 

My head jerks up in surprise. “You won’t?” 

Solas nods, though his eyes remain stormy. “My only request is that you reconsider your stance on the Fade. With the information you’ve provided, I strongly believe your problems with casting have more to do with your unstable connection to it, considering those that summoned you here and, I imagine attempting to mend it or re-stabilize, so to speak, will only enhance your power—“ 

“That’s all well and good or whatever but I really don’t think I can. I haven’t remembered a dream once since I got here,” I inform him. “And I was kind of a lucid dreamer back home so that’s not the usual for me.” 

Solas’ expression flattens. “You must try.” 

“Why?” I eye him carefully. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” 

I mean… besides the obvious. 

“I can only theorize with the information given at present.” 

It hurts more than I thought it would, the jab. It’s not even that he says it harshly, he doesn’t. But underlying the words are traces of accusation— _you don’t trust me, do you?_ “I… told you… eventually.” 

“Indeed. _After_ you began playing with magic that we have _no way_ of knowing the origin of now—“ 

“I didn’t— I didn’t know that would matter, okay? I didn’t even think I _could_ use magic a few weeks ago—!“ 

“Therein lies the issue, I suspect: _you don’t think_.” 

“That’s not fair,” I contest, angry tears welling up in my eyes. Fuck that shit— crying when pissed. It’s never made sense to me. Everyone else gets to yell and scream, make their point, while I get to look like a baby? Now _that’s_ not fair. Is _any_ of this though? My gut is sent lurching unpleasantly. 

“Is it not an accurate assessment?” 

“No. It’s not, and you’re an asshole.” 

** he may be unnecessarily blunt at times, but Solas is a man that has been on his own for a very, very long time. **

Stop making excuses for him. He’s an asshole who absolutely created a whole lot of his problems himself. 

I didn’t _get_ a choice. You didn’t get a choice, either. 

**…**

He’s always had them, and he keeps choosing wrong. 

“You’re certainly entitled to feel that way.” 

The angry fluttering in my chest increases tenfold at his blasé tone. “I think of anyone it could’ve been the fact that it’s _you_ chewing me out for keeping secrets is really fucking amusing, actually. When, exactly, were you planning on telling everyone just how Corypheus got his hands on that orb in the first place? Since we’re running exclusively on ‘honesty is the best policy’ around here now apparently.”  

** … **

Solas blinks slowly, once, twice. And then, he grimaces. “You say you would have known these things without Wisdom but that is…impossible. This… may be far more complicated than I thought—“   
****

“No,” I grit out. “I would’ve known no matter what—why? —because I’ve already seen all of this. Whatever it is you were trying to do is stupid as fuck and clearly resulted in an egomaniac to rival even _your_ dumb ass trying to take over the world—and you’re _still_ planning to try it again. Why? You want to get on my ass for _not thinking_ , you’re a fucking hypocrite—but that’s not all that surprising, is it?” 

 ** calm down.**  
****

_No_!   
****

“You have very little knowledge of what you speak of,” he remarks sharply.

“Do _you_ even know what you’re doing anymore?” I challenge. 

“Do you?” returns Solas.

An angry cry bellows out of me, crackling like thunder— it _burns_ — and then, nothing. 

* * *

* * *

“ **you were antagonizing her purposefully. what did you expect to happen?** ”

“As long as she is ruled by her emotions, she poses a danger to herself and to others.” _To you._

It sounds petulant, even to his own ears. 

_‘Guilt is wasteful. Pride is childish.’_

He had rather thought he was long past the days of acerbic slips of the tongue. It appears not. 

“ **you know better,** ” it comes off as reprimand, a mild one. “ **it has been a long time since you’ve had to consider the feelings of others, but that is no excuse. do better, as i know you are capable, old friend.** ”

“Coddling her serves no purpose.” 

A laugh, lilting. So different from the brash howling of the…child. Girl. “ **are you truly so afraid?** ” 

He turns away, then, from those amused, glowing eyes. He has to. “It is not right. Her— It is unnatural. All of it. I failed to see it before, but had I _truly_ looked—“ 

“ **that is not her fault.** ”

“No,” he agrees, after a moment of uncomfortable silence. 

That, of course, begs the question—  then whose? 

“ **it changes nothing, you know.** ” Wisdom smiles; it looks distinctly out of place on a face that had been screaming at him only moments ago. And yet, it warms him, in spite of it all. “ **she has known from the start. it is still you she turns to in times of confusion, worry.** ” 

“And I’m sure that has nothing to do with your influence.” 

“ **not nearly as much as you seem to think.** ” 

“Hm.” 

A hand reaches out, holds his. He tries not to stare at the present scorch marks, placed there by the lightning that tore its way, ravaging, out of her palms— he meant to prod, enough to elicit a reaction from her magic; one that would reach further than arms length. He did not mean to cause this. She could’ve killed herself. Would have, if not for Wisdom, likely. 

“ **caring means fearing, at least to an extent. i understand why you push others away, but _she_ has no one else—certainly none with your understanding of the fade and its inner workings.** ”

“She is stubborn.” 

“ **so are you.** ”  Wisdom reasons, not unkindly. “ **you are not so dissimilar as you’d like to believe. you have both seen the worlds you knew taken from you, whether by choice or happenstance.** **her mother by birth; a larger than life figure in this strange land, shrouded in myth and legend. tell me— does a part of you not still ache for the comfort you once found in mythal’s shadow?** ”

“It is not…the same.” 

“ **it is enough.** ” 

Solas lowers his head, the hand holding his own easing its grip just barely. “What would you have me do?” 

Lips upturn. “ **as i have always expected of you, of course. you must do what you can with what you have been given.** ” 

“Please. Don’t leave—“ he mutters, reaching out to the hand slipping from his grasp. “I—“ 

“ **i know. and you have me, still, just differently now. it is alright, solas.** ”

Before he can get another word out, the body falls limply into his arms. Solas sighs, shifting the weight of her so that she’s nestled comfortably against his chest, his arms cradling her legs. The girl— _Allison_ —  makes a noise at the back of her throat, her eyes do not open. The breath falling heavily from her nose tells him all he needs to know.

She needs rest. 

And when she wakes, there will be learning to do. For them both. 

* * *

* * *

A woman screams—guttural, piercing. 

It shatters any illusion of peace I may have found, the resonance of it scouring its way through my bones as my eyes shoot open. 

 **it was only a bad dream,** Wisdom soothes.  **you are safe.**

A bad dream… right. I rest my head back on the pillow, swallowing deeply.   
****

**he did not mean to push you so far, so quickly.**

Well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Or something.   
****

_And_ he’s a jackass. 

I lift my hand, grimacing at the thin, white lines trailing the length of my palm like little streaks of lightning. _I’m legitimately going to kick him in the goddamn throat._ At least it wasn’t my face. 

**you are both still learning— this is a process neither of you were prepared for. be hurt. be angry. but do not let this shake your resolve. you made a list, as i recall. lists make everything better. number one— nobody is to be left behind the fade. that was what you decided, was it not?**

That was before I realized magic actually sucks, so.  
****

**does it frighten you? that you are stronger than you—or solas, even— originally thought?**

I raise an arm, maneuvering my elbow so it covers my eyes, sensing a headache on the horizon. 

Stronger, or gifted with extremely dumb luck? 

**does it matter?**

I don’t know.   
****

**you will learn. you _are_ learning. it will not always seem so daunting. or perhaps it will, and you will be better for braving it in spite of the fact.**

Do you get off on imparting your vast wisdom on us lowly creatures, or is it like a job to you? 

**i know nothing else.**

What did you do when there weren’t people to boss around?   
****

**i have always had solas. we have been friends for a very long time.**

He doesn’t seem the type to want to be bossed around. Or maybe he seems the exact type and that’s the problem—too easy.   
****

**now, i have you. you are clever, though you seem repulsed by common sense in most matters. you act often before thinking, your tongue is quicker than your mind.**

I grunt, unamused.   
****

**it is not a bad thing. perhaps we each make up for what the other lacks.**

And what is it, exactly, I’m bringing to this party?   
****

Charm? Sarcasm? My expansive and colorful vocabulary?

**another friend.**

**it has never occurred to me that my existence could have been a lonely one. i certainly never considered it so. yet, i find myself… reconsidering, as of late.**  
****

Wow, you like me. You really like me.   
****

At least someone does.

**if you ever let someone fully past those walls of yours, i am certain they would feel much the same.**

I huff, a _little_ pleased but ultimately doubtful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly my multi-chap pacing is always gd horrific so i'm sorry if this one is jarring or anything i'm always open for criticism to make it better. drag me 2 hell  
>   
> also  
> |￣￣￣￣￣￣  
> | ALLIE  
> | SHOULD  
> | DROP  
> | KICK  
> | SOLAS  
> | __＿＿＿＿__  
> (\\__/) ||  
> (•ㅅ•) ||  
> / 　 づ  
> lms if u agree


	10. Chapter 10

 

* * *

  _(8 years before the Blight.)_

* * *

 

It takes weeks— five, to be precise— before the girl requests an audience with Wynne (and is miraculously granted it by the unprecedented mercy of the Knight Commander himself.) 

She’s cleaner, at least. The dried blood no longer clumps her dark hair, and now that it is washed and pulled out of her face, Wynne finds herself surprised to find that the shaking, shivering, cowering girl— no, _young woman_ — is actually quite fetching. Long, messy curls of ebony frame her angular face and, for once, her expression lacks the characteristics of a startled doe. Her jaw is set resolutely, eyes alight with intent.  

The first words out of her mouth are what truly stuns the Senior Enchanter, though. “The boy, the one in the cell next to mine. He’s… he’s just a kid. Can’t you—“ she bites her lower lip, momentarily searching for the words. “—just let him off with a detention or something? This seems cruel. And excessive. I don’t know what he did, but he can’t be older than, like, ten—“ 

“I’m thirteen,” barks the boy indignantly. It echoes off the walls, the derision in his young voice obvious.   

 _Anders_ , Wynne muses to herself exhaustively. _Again._

“And I escaped. Twice already,” he preens. “Which is more than I can say for you, lady.” 

“Shut up, you brat,” the girl spits back. At the authority that seeps into her tone even Wynne blinks. “See?” she turns to meet the older woman's gaze. “Totally a child. Completely petulant and fucking annoying.” 

“Hey!” 

“ _So_ annoying,” she repeats. “But didn’t you say this was a school or something? Shouldn’t _this_ be all kinds of illegal?” 

“I—“ Wynne hesitates. “Matters of discipline are typically left in the hands of the Knight Commander. Though it is not uncommon for the First Enchanter to become involved, if it proves necessary.” 

“Are you saying you can’t do anything?” 

“I don’t need _your_ help,” insists the child angrily. There’s something else underlying the words, perhaps. If Wynne were to venture a guess, she’d say it was something that lingers between the dare to hope and the unfortunate reality of disappointment that accompanies the life of a young mage. None of the other apprentices struggle with authority the way that Anders does, it is true. Just the same, she supposes that no adult has ever put themselves on the line on his behalf, either. The boy has an odd way of showing gratitude. 

The young woman has an even odder way of showing compassion. “Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up?” 

“ _Hmph_!” 

It takes a minute for her to see it, but eventually it becomes quite clear. “You are a mother,” Wynne states. It is not a question. 

 “Sort of," it is offered plainly with an inflection of regret that the older mage is wholly certain she did not intend to let slip. 

“How can you _sort of_ be a mother?” gripes Anders. 

Wynne, however, is already intimately familiar with the concept. Despite herself, her heart bleeds for the foul-mouthed, wild-eyed woman before her and the child she’s been taken from. “I will see what can be done. I promise nothing.” 

A twitch of her lips hints at a smile. “If you can get this headache out of my hair, I’d consider it a goddamn miracle. Please.” 

“As though you’re such good company!” 

The silver-haired woman recalls being born at night, but not the last. As such, she does not believe the dismissive front the girl puts on— not for a single moment. 

And that is exactly why Anders is sent grudgingly back to classes the very next day, and Kathryn, no more than a week later, is left to begin her studies under Wynne’s watchful eye. 

* * *

_(6 years before the Blight.)_

* * *

 

Trying to draw magic out of her, initially, is rather like pulling teeth. 

It’s as though there’s a barrier intended to purposefully keep it all locked up. 

There’s little progress in the first year they work together. Kathryn manages to summon a wisp capable of very little healing. It is enough to keep the First Enchanter and Knight Commander placated, for a time, it is harmless enough. Little by little, it grows. A wisp becomes a barrier. A barrier becomes a wall. A wall grows taller. Her face becomes less hollow, her eyes less lifeless. Progress.

Then, two years after her induction into the Circle, a templar strikes down an at-risk mage, as they are wont to do, very publicly. 

Wynne can still hear the bloodcurdling scream the young woman had bellowed, can still feel the heat of the flames she’d sent spiraling all across the library. 

It had been simple enough to subdue her. One templar casted a Holy Smite, another had her bound with her arms behind her back in an instant. 

When she is dragged to solitary, once more, Wynne pretends not to notice the teenaged boy sneaking meals to her in the dead of night, sitting outside her cell, waiting until morning’s first light would break before sneaking back to his own dorms. Anders is softer for it, certainly, but no less flighty are his feet. The more he sees, the Senior Enchanter knows, the more resentful he will grow. Similarly, she pretends not to hear the encouragement Kathryn offers in return. _“One day, they won't have enough of a grip to drag you back here, kid."_  Her voice is melancholy. " _You'll know when. Trust me."_

When the Knight Commander demands that Kathryn be put through a Harrowing or killed, Wynne says nothing. 

There is nothing she _can_ say. 

Whether she is ready or not, it will happen. 

They ply her with excessive amounts of Lyrium, as is custom, and she falls comatose. 

For one dreadfully long moment, or several, Wynne fears the worst. 

Kathryn wakes with a scream. 

“You’ve passed, it is time to rest,” soothes Irving. Greagoir grunts from his station, looking incredibly put out. 

Her eyes go dark before they meet Wynne’s. 

Any pride the older woman might have felt at her student’s success is quickly overridden by the terror pooling in her gaze at that very moment (and nearly every moment from then on.) 

* * *

* * *

Kathryn steadily refuses to take Lyrium after that. At the mere mention of it, she flinches. When templars get too close, smelling heavily of it, she goes stiff and gets a faraway look in her eyes. The Knight Commander takes no issue with the revelation. No Lyrium, no power, is what he thinks. Wynne knows better, has seen the woman set fire to the world around her with only abject horror fueling it. She says nothing, allowing the damned man his blissful ignorance. 

If he knew, he’d worry, loudly, the way she does privately. Mages who seek power through other means usually turn to… less savory methods. 

She’ll watch her, as she always has, _very_ carefully. And she will hope it is enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm thinking of flashback chapters in intervals of 5 since that's just how it's happened to work so far? it won't always be from Wynne's pov but i figure it makes sense for as long as she's in the Circle at least but the next one will definitely be from someone else's perspective :^) and that one will probably be the last one in Kinloch before the Blight


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Turns out anger is a pretty effective motivator. Especially when you’re a stubborn asshole like me. 

I’m not super eager for a repeat incident of… yeah, that, and the scar I’ve got on my palm is ugly enough that I’m willing to shelve the practical magic shit for a while until I figure out why I’m like a ticking time-bomb exactly. Instead, I spend every morning of the next week jogging around the battlements. I get a few odd looks from early-shift scouts and soldiers, and honestly I’d be side-eying myself if I wasn’t in desperate need of an outlet for my… anger? Frustration? Disbelief? All of it. I have too many feelings and sitting around crying about it doesn’t seem like it’s going to work the way it did when I was still a kid. Unfortunately. 

Mornings spent running, afternoons spent perusing magical books until I pass out or get hungry enough that I can be lured out of my room. 

It works, I guess, as a routine. 

**is avoiding solas part of your routine as well?**

Oh, absolutely.   
****

**you cannot hide from him forever.**

He’s avoiding me, too. Go yell at _him_ about it.   
****

**that would require an amount of effort on your part that i don’t suppose you’re willing to accommodate.**

Pretty much.   
****

**whatever you think is best.**

As long as I’m the one behind the wheel, right?   
****

**i would not act without your consent.**

Yeah… I know.   
****

I guess word has made it back from the Inquisitor because Skyhold’s kind of a mess. Scouts were already sort of all over the place before but now you can’t walk five feet without spotting one in your peripheral. I’ve done my best to stay keenly away from the templars’ area—though now it seems like they’ve been given the all-clear to spread out as vastly and as annoyingly as possible. I have to resort to some Mission Impossible type shit to get around now without drawing a suspicious eye.

Even then, I’m constantly being tailed by Leliana’s people, anyway, so I’m not sure why I really bother. 

But… today is the same as any other, I wake up, wash, and head out to the ramparts, eager to clear my head. 

Only it doesn’t quite work like that this time. 

A gauntleted hand grabs me by the neck, covers my mouth as I open it to scream, and pulls me back into an armored chest. I wince at the impact, panic registering with startling quickness. I keep trying to scream, though all that comes out is muffled and barely intelligible, flinging my limbs out wildly, just hoping to, _I don’t know_ , catch the perpetrator with my bony ass elbows or something? It doesn’t work. My mind reels with infinite (all particularly awful) possibilities of how this is going to go down. 

I’m going to be killed. This is a templar and they are going to literally end my life for no reason other than the fact I’m slightly possessed.

Kind of fucked up. Learn to respect people’s life choices, maybe, dickhole. 

**this was not your choice.**

_Still!_    
****

**will you allow me to help you draw from your mana?**

Do you really even have to ask?! _YES_.   
****

**this might be quite disorienting,** warns Wisdom. 

 _DO IT._  

It was a fair warning, at least. My brain turns to mush, my vision blurs— it feels like the world is slowly tilting itself upside down, but somehow I manage to keep upright thanks to the grip of the asshole dragging me. I can feel the tingles of electricity stringing itself along my skin, raising the hair on my arms. 

**now.**

I scream. 

I’m sent reeling backwards along with them as the templar stumbles, clearly not having expected to be turned into a secondary conduit for fucking lightning. “Let me go!” I hiss. Another crackle emits from my fingers, their hold only tightens to a bruising extent. “Seriously? Fuck, why are you—?!” 

The gauntlet clamps itself over my mouth again. I hear faint, muffled murmuring from inside the helmet, and—

I’m hit with a wave of tiredness, nausea, and vertigo all at once. 

I keel over instinctively, promptly puking my guts out. My throat burns. 

_What the fuck…?_

**allison?**

Wisdom sounds worried. 

That should worry me, probably. 

_I’m going to die._

**your mana pool is depleting— i cannot—**

After all this bullshit, this is how I’m going to die.   
****

**allison, you need to—**

_“we’re friends, aren’t we?”_  
****

My mouth goes dry, cottony.

Yes. 

The world is slowly fading to greyscale, eventually turning completely black. Or did I just close my eyes? 

_ “you promised you’d come back, but… not so soon.”  _

Sorry. 

_“it’ll be okay. it always is_.” 

Will it?

“ _yes!”_

** _allison?_ **

“What’s going on here? _Sunshine?"_  
****

Varric?

It sounds distorted, too. Muffled. Everything does. Like I’m underwater. 

“Get him off her! You **—** recruit, what are you doing?! Is _he_ —?"

"Looks...dead, Inquisitor." 

"She’s —bleeding, from the nose—? That’s not _normal,_ is it?"

"Hawke—not _you_ , the little one!—get her to a healer, I'll take care of this idiot myself."

The Inquisitor...? Now I know I'm having a fucked up fever dream, she almost sounds pissed. 

I’m so tired. 

_“you’ll be okay.”_

Why?

_ “we promised.”  _

" _Little one_ ," I hear a voice scoff as I'm lifted from the ground, an arm tucking itself beneath my knees and the other settling around my shoulders. I moan a little, nauseous at the sudden movement, and the barely coherent grumbling stops for a moment as my head falls limply onto the shoulder of my current mode of transportation. My vision flickers in and out before I inhale shakily. 

* * *

* * *

“Why am I alive?” 

My voice is gross and croaky but I guess I should count myself lucky I can use it at all. 

“Am I to take that a sign of gratitude?” A flat voice remarks. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

I grimace. “Thank you?” 

“Yes, we’ve been over this, I think. Get up, I need to check your vitals now that you’re _awake_.” 

I comply with a slight groan. My head is still very much _not okay_ , apparently. I take the opportunity to scan the healer’s features now that his back is no longer turned towards me. Beard, bald, angry eyebrows. _Adan._ I flinch at the cold hands on my wrist as they search for a pulse. “What happened?” 

“Do you not remember?” he quirks one of those angry brows making his expression appear, momentarily, not so grumpy. “You were assaulted by a templar. Used Holy Smite; a nasty piece of work, that is. Completely drains your mana pool within a matter of seconds.” 

“Oh.” Yeah. “I remember that part.” 

“Well, that templar wasn’t operating under official Inquisition orders, so, here we are. And there you are, not in chains. A miracle.” 

“How did I get… here?” 

“Warden brought you in.” 

“A _Grey_ Warden?” 

“Is there any other type of warden?” returns the dour man sardonically. 

“I...guess not.” 

But that’s still weird. 

“You can lie back down now.” It’s not really a suggestion as he pushes me by the shoulder. Bedside manner could use some fucking work, honestly. 

I swallow. “How long am I going to be stuck here?” 

“Until I can get your mana supply regulated, at least. You being able to sit up for more than four minutes without going glassy-eyed would be nice but, I’m not a professional so let’s not get our hopes up.” 

“Then why are you—“ 

“There are too many soldiers coming back from the field in need of _actual_ healing,” he answers. “I know enough to fix up a tired mage. Not my preferred line of work, but I do what I can.” 

“Well… thanks.” 

“So you’ve said.” Adan’s beard twitches. He turns back to his alchemy set-up, bottling different solutions. “Been getting a few visitors. Popular, are you? The spymaster herself came by looking for blood earlier. That bald apostate stopped by, as well. Helped with the bruising and is probably the real reason you’re not still tossing up your breakfast and lunch.” 

I stare at the back of his head. 

Solas… 

**why are you surprised?**

Because he’s an asshole?   
****

**why are you, really?**

Because I’m kind of an asshole, too.   
****

“And no one left me any flowers? Not even a card?” I ask sarcastically.

Adan glances over his shoulder, offering me an odd look. “There is _one_. Don’t know _who_ left it, didn’t see anyone come in with anything— should be at the nightstand to your left.” Then, he returns to his work. Conversation evidently over. 

I look, only marginally surprised to find a small vase of Embrium flowers with unevenly snipped stems. 

“If they’re from a gentleman caller, I suggest turning ‘im in for a new one. Embrium’s not particularly useful, nor’s it particularly nice looking. Pretty sure the ponces in Orlais used to send them to each other as threats,” gripes the man. 

I plop my head back onto my pillow with a smile, resolving to thank Cole later. “Whatever. I like them.” 

“Then you’re perfect for each other,” the alchemist scoffs. 

* * *

* * *

“You’re alive,” Hawke greets cheerfully. 

"For how much longer, though?" I ask, turning a wary eye to the half-cracked door to the War Council room. From outside, the muffled arguing of the advisors (and Solas) can be heard in heated whispers. The Inquisitor's voice raises the most frequently, though in the fifteen minutes I'd been camped outside, I'd heard Leliana take a sharp tone with something Cullen had to say **—** I don't know what it was, exactly, but I can make a few educated guesses. Abomination this, abomination that. 

Hawke's hand buries itself in his beard, scratching thoughtfully. His lips go taut, drawing into a pout. "Well, that attitude's no good." 

My eyes flicker back to him, unamused. "Why are you even—" 

"Sunshine. Hawke," Varric greets amicably, as he strolls down the long hall, footsteps falling lightly. 

I blink at him before my eyes slowly glide up to find a pair of glacier eyes peering back sternly. Immediately, I turn my attention back to the smiling dwarf. "Okay, what's going on? I know why _I'm_ here. But I don't think any of you have been accused of turning a templar into a lighting conduit recently, so what gives?" 

"Ah, ah. But we bore witness to said transfiguration, didn't we?" grins Hawke. 

"I'm almost definitely going to be executed but I'm _super_ glad you're feeling up to cracking jokes." 

Varric's expression warms to something akin to sympathetic. "You acted in self defense. You're not in any trouble, sunshine—"

"Maybe not for killing the templar," I reply tightly. 

** he tried to kill you first.  **

Involuntary manslaughter, then. Still illegal. Still morally kind of fucked. 

** this world is not the one you remember. if you are to adapt, so must your— **

_Can we not?_

"But definitely for exposing myself as an unnecessarily high risk," I finish flatly, meeting Varric's gaze stonily. 

"Methinks the lady is being just a bit dramatic," drawls Hawke. 

"Methinks the bearded man should really shut up before I make my dying request to shove my staff up his ass so far it comes out his nose." 

Hawke's jaw goes slack in mock outrage and Carver smirks, slapping a hand to his brother's shoulder. "Might be wise to mind your tongue, brother. For once." Turning his gaze to me, his expression straightens out. "The Inquisitor is not as heartless as you believe. If you hadn't killed the templar, she might have done it herself." 

" _Doubt_ ," I mutter mostly to myself. 

He raises a brow. "Her sword was drawn and her attention was not for a second on the 'at risk' mage, so to speak. And even if she hadn't, one of us certainly would have. No one will fault you for the outcome of this situation. There was no other way it could've ended peacefully." 

 _Peacefully?_ "Someone's dead." _Because of me._

"Do you not see yourself as a victim in this?" he asks, seemingly genuinely curious. "You were attacked—caught unaware— were you not?" 

"Look, I get what you're trying to do, but **—** " 

"Have you not killed before?" he presses bluntly. 

I lurch backwards, not having expected that sort of response. 

** he's not wrong.  **

Well, he doesn't have to be such a fucking asshole about it! 

Varric slaps a hand to his forehead. "Junior..." 

Hawke leans in to whisper loudly at his brother's ear, "Might be wise to mind _your_ tongue, brother. For once." 

I can feel my face go warm in anger, feel the sinking of my gut as what I've been suppressing finally begins sinking in. "Okay, _dickhead_ ," I seethe.

He quirks a thick brow at my tone but says nothing. 

"Yes! Yes it was my first time killing another person! Yes, I'm upset! Yes, that's normal! You know what isn't normal? Asking someone about their kill-count like you're asking about the weather—that's fucking absurd! And insensitive! And you suck for it! I mean, what the _fuck_? How many people have you killed then, tough guy?" 

Carver's expression remains unperturbed. "I've lost count." 

"That's fucked up!" 

"Maybe," he allows plainly. "What good is wallowing going to do about it? It won't bring them back. That templar knew what he risked by attacking you, disregarding his orders. Do you believe he'd feel guilty if your positions were reversed? Do you think he would lose sleep over a dead mage?" 

"That doesn't— _it doesn't work like that,_ " I protest furiously, running a hand through my hair. "You don't get to cherrypick what kind of murder is okay and what kind of murder isn't. It's _all_ illegal—" It's all wrong. 

"Not in matters of self defense, not typically," he counters. 

I breathe in deeply. I'm going to lose my fucking mind. "Whatever, it's not like that for me, okay? I can't just turn off my moral compass and pretend like any of this is normal, I can't. I can't and I _won't_." 

At that, Carver shrugs. "Fine, but expecting everyone else to condemn you the way you condemn yourself is a waste of your breath." 

I blink. 

"You aren't going to be strung up for this. Whether you decide to torment yourself over it is another matter entirely in your own hands. Are you done screaming now at least?" 

I narrow my eyes. "I don't know. Are you done patronizing me?" 

"I'm not patronizing you. It's not my fault if you're painfully naive." 

"Junior, _enough_ ," interjects Varric. "As amusing as it is to watch you kids squabble, this really isn't the time." 

"I apologize for him," Hawke jerks a thumb in Carver's direction. "He was never properly socialized as a child." 

"That joke becomes less funny every time you use it." 

"That's fine, I find myself meaning it more each time I use it," he adds with a pointed look towards his brother who rolls his eyes.  

I huff, slumping back against the wall and turning my head away from the Three Stooges and back towards the barely cracked door. The voices have gone quiet and for a brief moment I'm convinced they'd all been counter-eavesdropping on us. Solas' voice picks back up and I slide to the ground, burying my face in my knees with a groan. 

** it will be alright.  **

How do you know? 

** you do not want to admit it, but the warden is right.  **

** you will not be held accountable for the templar's death the way your upbringing is telling you that you should be. **

** and that is okay.   **

** it is also okay to grieve the loss of innocence you perceive has been taken from you, but you must not let it chain you forever.  **

I really hate it when you're right.  


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

“Your head is very heavy.” 

“Are you trying to tell me I have a big head?” 

“No,” replies Cole simply. “You have a lot of thoughts.” As if to prove a point, he pokes at my forehead with a finger. “Here. Pressure building, rising, steady and then not. Can’t you feel it?” 

I heave a sigh. “Unfortunately.” 

“You could let them out.” 

“Or I could _not_.” 

“Won’t it weigh you down?” he hums thoughtfully, picking at a strand of my dry hair. So, yeah. Turns out using soap bars and various scented oils as shampoo for weeks at a time will dry the fuck out of your already bleach damaged hair. Don’t try it. You’re welcome. “If you want to get somewhere, you can’t be stuck _here_ with _them_.” 

“Them?”

“Thoughts.” 

“Cute.” 

“No,” he says. “Not at all. And you don’t really think so, either. You lie to yourself all the time.” 

“It’s called sarcasm, Cole.” 

“It’s not helping,” is the firm retort. “Say something honest.” 

I want to roll my eyes, but the nicer, extremely marginalized, part of me somehow manages to get me to hold my tongue at least long enough to consider the odd request. “Solas is an asshole.” 

“Say something _nice_ and honest,” chides the spirit. 

“Solas is an asshole only _most_ of the time.” 

“Is this helping?” he wonders aloud. “You think you’re funny; it makes you laugh but only on the inside. Even if it’s mean.” 

“It’s just how I cope, okay?” I try to smile placatingly, sitting up and facing him. I’m sure it comes off as a grimace. The grounds around us are deserted — good thing, I don’t suppose it’d be a welcome sight for much of the Inquisition to see the resident renegade templar-killer and her spirit confidant conspiring out in the open. “Everybody’s different. Maybe I have to be a little mean to feel better about the fact I _know_ I’m mean?” it trails off like a question, and I scrunch my nose up instinctively in distaste. “Okay, yeah. Didn’t like therapy when I was eight, don’t like it now.” 

Cole tilts his head, hat slipping slightly over his eyes. “You’re not always mean.” 

“Just most of the time,” I agree with a solemn nod. 

“Is it okay to be mean if someone hurts you? Is it right to hurt them back?” 

I blink. Kind of a loaded question. But then, isn't everything with Cole? 

His milky gaze meets mine sternly. “First with Solas. He pushed you, so you pushed back. Maybe it wasn’t right, but you didn’t feel better for it, did you? Just angry. Angry and alone— more alone than before.” 

“Solas started it,” I begin to argue. 

“Yes, maybe. Does it matter?” 

“ _Yes_.” 

“And then the hawk,” he rambles on, evidently on a mission. “Is it easier to push away someone when they say something to hurt you than to try to understand?” 

Well, obviously. “Yes.” 

“Is easier better?” 

“For me? I guess.” 

Cole just stares at me for a while after that. “…Is it better now?” 

I hesitate, and then blurt, “Can we, like, not right now, Cole? Please.” 

“Okay.” 

“Thanks.” 

He flops back over, resting his arms under his head, eyes gazing up at the clear sky. “I have a lot of thoughts, too.” 

_you’re not alone._

I pat his arm knowingly. _Neither are you_. 

* * *

* * *

I’ve never trusted redheads. Just for the record. 

So, when Leliana basically busts down my door the next morning, I immediately burrow myself in my covers and pray to whatever god is out there listening that she takes the hint and moves the fuck on. 

She doesn’t. 

The covers are ripped from my trembling body, and I let out an unimpressive little squeak before darting to use my pillow as a shield. “Back the fuck up!” My voice wobbles, and Leliana doesn’t quite roll her eyes but I can tell it’s a close thing. “… _please_.” 

Her cornflower blue eyes peer around the room momentarily before eventually zeroing in on what she’s looking for. She strides over to my humble, small pile of clothes, grabs some at random and launches them at me with a curt, “Get dressed. I will give you five minutes; if you aren’t ready by then, you’ll be coming regardless.” A warning. 

And with that, she sweeps out of the room. 

 _Scary._  

**stern.**

No. _Scary_ , I insist, grumbling inwardly as I struggle to my feet and spitefully pick another set of clothes that weren’t cherrypicked by the ginger from hell. I’m just about finished hopping from one leg to the other, trying to pull my pants on, when a knock sounds at the door. “Unless you want an all inclusive look at my dumbass medieval undies and the legs of someone who hasn’t been able to shave, in like, a week, I’d suggest you don’t open the door— tempting, I know, but _seriously_.”   
****

The knocking stops and I’m half expecting Leliana to come barreling in anyway.

My brows furrow but then I shrug, lacing my trousers and then hastily tugging a comb through my rat’s nest of hair. “I’ll be right out!” I offer placatingly through the door because I can just see her face now. 

Devastatingly beautiful and _murderous._

Slightly out of breath, I pull the door open and freeze, all my racing thoughts coming to an abrupt and sudden halt. “You’re not… Leliana,” I blurt, startled. 

An ebony brow raises at me, amused. “Not quite.” 

What the fuck is she doing here? 

**one can only guess it has something to do with the templar incident.**

Ah, fuck me.   
****

And that means…

Leliana was just a convenient diversion to get my ass out of bed. 

**it would appear so.**

Fuck.   
****

**so you’ve iterated. many times.**

_Justifiable_ , I think morosely, eyeing the Inquisitor warily.   
****

She merely stares blankly at me before clearing her throat, “I see you’re dressed. Would you be willing to take a walk with me? I would like to speak with you, if that’s alright.”

Her tone seriously implies that she does not care whether or not it is, in fact, ‘alright’ with me so I nod slowly entirely out of self preservation. 

We walk in silence for a few moments, passing a few onlooking (insultingly shocked) passerby in the process, before she opens her mouth to speak again. “First, I’d like to apologize on behalf of the Inquisition for the events that took place only a week ago. That templar was not operating under official orders and an investigation has been made into whether or not this truly was an isolated incident. Thus far, we’ve found no evidence that any others among the troops were conspiring with him, but we’ll keep a keen eye for the time being.” Her tone is strictly business, which shouldn’t really come as a surprise as she’s kind of a political figure of sorts… but I’m still shocked. 

I blink, “Are _you_ … apologizing to _me_?” 

Her nostrils flare, eyes flashing. “On behalf of the Inquisition,” she emphasizes. 

“And you’re… investigating it?” 

Trevelyan’s voice lowers. “We’ve had plants placed among the troops from the beginning— Leliana’s people. It wasn’t my decision, in fact I didn’t even find out until Haven had already been… Well, anyway, yes. Though, I must once again stress that _nothing_ has been found to indicate this is a conspiracy of any kind. It very well was likely just a rogue templar acting out his aggressions unfairly.” 

I hum thoughtfully, still buzzing on the high of having Her Majesty herself _deigning_ to apologize to me, albeit indirectly. “That doesn’t make me feel that much better. If one templar can manage it, any of them can. I mean, props for trying, but what’s stopping the others from attacking other innocent people?” 

“We’ve made the recruiting process stricter. All currently active templars are being evaluated by a medical professional, proficient in both mental and physical ailments. There’s not much else that _can_ be done. If you have suggestions, take them up with Josephine or Leliana,” she finishes, a little sourly, as if this part had been rehearsed many times and she liked it even less each time. 

“I don’t think you’d like my suggestions.” 

“I suppose I wouldn’t,” she replies dryly. 

“Well… thanks, I guess. For not being a total bitch about it.” 

And not having me executed. 

“Is that meant to be a compliment?” 

“Yes, but only on behalf of my continued survival. Don’t take it personally, we can still hate each other on principle.” 

At that, Trevelyan’s lips twitch into an almost smirk. “I’m glad we have an understanding.” Another clearing of her throat, and then. “I’ve been told you still haven’t been attending your lessons with Solas. Not that I can blame you. But, even if your actions with the templar were out of necessity, the council has dictated that your lessons must be continued for your own safety as well the safety of others. If you’d prefer a teacher that isn’t absolutely insufferable, that can be arranged, else I’d suggest you make amends with the apostate.” 

A cold shiver runs up my spine at the implication. A mage that _isn’t_ insufferable by Trevelyan’s standards? 

Vivienne. 

Oh, _fuck_ no. 

“I think I’ll stick with the devil I know rather than the one I don’t, thanks,” I reply maybe a bit too quickly. “Besides I kind of miss his stick-up-the-ass lectures. A little.” Not really, but she doesn’t need to know that. “I’ll take care of it. That’s, like, more than fair, after all.” I’m rambling now, and Trevelyan nods mostly to herself. 

“As I said, any concerns you may have can be taken up with Josephine or Leliana. As for me, that’ll be all.” 

It’s as clear of a dismissal as I’ve ever heard. “Sure. Um, bye.” 

“Good day,” she offers, not looking as though she really means it before turning on her heel.

It takes me approximately a minute to realize where it is she’d walked me to. 

Just when I was starting to think she’s okay, that _bitch_.  

**what was it you said? you missed him?**

The stick-up-his-ass, actually. Specifically.  
****

And I was lying through my teeth to make her go away. It was complete bullshit.

**i see.**

I glower at the door as though it’s Wisdom.   
****

**so defensive. i wonder why that is.**

Ugh!   
****

* * *

* * *

“I was wondering when I’d see you.” 

At that remark, I almost turn back out of the room out of pure spite. Instead, I swallow deeply and remain standing just shy of the doorway. “You’re lucky I was threatened with being thrown under the tutelage of Madame De Fer, or else I’d dip right the fuck now.” 

Solas almost smiles. “You’ve met, I take it?” 

“I’ve heard things,” I correct, “And I just… know it wouldn’t be a good situation. For anyone.” 

He folds his hands together over his desk. “You know,” he repeats. “Is this referring to your supposed foreknowledge as previously mentioned?” 

I take a step further into the room. “Maybe.” 

“You may sit, if you’d like.” 

I shrug before complying with no small trace of reluctance. “So, what’s up?” 

The elf stares at me blankly. “You’re remarkably nonchalant about all this, considering.” 

“I think we’ve been over this before. I don’t process like I probably should. I also don’t do makeups, like ever. So, just… are we good?” 

“I do not know. Are we?” 

“I mean, just hearing you talk isn’t making me want to set everything on fire. At least not totally. That’s a start, right?” 

“Allison. We should talk—“ 

“No thanks.” 

“You were _assaulted_ —“ 

“Yeah, and the guy that did it is dead. There’s nothing to talk about. It’s over.” 

Solas leans back in his chair, eyes searching my face for _something_. “I see.” 

“No,” I reply. “You really kind of don’t. But you don’t have to, stop _trying_.” 

“Is this how you deal with everything? Do you truly believe ignoring the reality of it is wise?” 

“See, this is why I wanted to kick your ass to begin with. You don’t know everything, and you certainly don’t know shit about me. I’m telling you to stop pushing it, so please— _stop_.” 

He exhales, clearly displeased. “Very well. I hope you do not mind me asking, on a purely magical level, how are you feeling? Is your mana supply at full capacity?” 

Um, is it? 

**it is adequate. full? i do not know, considering we’ve only seen your full potential through vast expressions of…emotion.**

Tantrums.   
****

**emotion is not an inherently negative thing, allison.**

Well, that’s debatable when it causes a person to fuck as much shit up as I do.   
****

**you will learn. no one expects you to be without flaw except, perhaps, yourself.**

“It’s… fine,” I answer belatedly, chewing at my lower lip. 

“You had to ask Wisdom?” he guesses, sounding distinctly unhappy about it. “What about our exercises? Have you not been practicing?” 

“I’ve been kind of busy.” In and out of the healer's quarters, that is. 

“Yes, I imagine you have,” retorts Solas evenly. “There’s no time like the present, I suppose. I’m certain you remember your meditation exercises, at least?” 

I groan. “Are you kidding me?” 

“We have much to catch up on. The beginning seems as good a place to start as any.” 

“I should’ve risked Vivienne’s wrath. At least she’d be too sketched out to actually want to interact with me, let alone bitch the way _you_ do.” 

“I want you to meditate for a half hour, and if you still can’t sense your mana by then, perhaps you _will_ find yourself at the mercy of Madame De Fer,” he remarks snarkily. 

Fuck this. 

**it is familiar. you don’t truly mind it. dare i say, you find yourself at ease here.**

_Shut up,_ I think, dropping to the floor with an indignant huff and crossing my legs. My eyes shut instinctively— _even if you’re not wrong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the slow/late update i took a bit of a break for a few weeks bc i had plans & trying to get back into allison's headspace was hard v_v she's a pain in my ass. anyway... hey.... hi... hello.... it's me 
> 
> also went thru a username change, not for any specific reason other than i felt like it lol sorry for any confusion i'm an impulsive motherfucker (ง •̀_•́)ง


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

A hand worms its way into my hair, rustling it, and my eyes pry themselves open blearily. 

“We’re here. Time to wake up, sleepyhead.” 

That voice.

I jolt up only to find myself restrained— glancing down panickedly, I spot the seatbelt. The hand in my hair drops to pat my cheek, and a string of high pitched laughter hits me square in the gut. “Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to scare you. Let me get that for you—“ 

“No,” my voice cracks, and even then it sounds wrong. I grab the hand that reaches for the seatbelt, and push it away from me. “You’re not— no. No, we’re not doing this, brain. Not today.” 

“Allie?” 

 _I’m not going to do it,_ I think, turning my head. _I’m not going to look at her. None of this real, there’s no point._

“Allie, baby, what’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?” 

_Just wake up already you fucking idiot._

“Come on, we can grab you some medicine inside the gas station. And some ginger ale or something, okay?” 

Gas station. 

All the blood in my body freezes over at once, which I suppose isn’t a normal thing to feel in the middle of a _dream_. I swallow thickly, lifting my gaze to peer out the window. The station sign blinks ominously overhead with the prices displayed in lopsided rows. I remember thinking even way back then all those years ago that the upside down 1’s felt like an omen. And you know what? Maybe I was right. 

I’ve had this sort of dream enough to recognize just where it is my head is trying to take me. 

It’s never felt quite this disorienting, though— and that’s what actually fucking worries me. 

I can deal with nightmares; I’m a big girl now, okay? But nightmares in a world where magic and demons and shit are viable threats? 

… _Magic and demons…_

Oh, fuck me. 

“Honey?” 

“Fuck off,” I hiss, unbuckling my own belt and resolving to make a fucking break for it. 

The Fade can eat my whole ass. 

 _Wisdom?_ I think, slightly worriedly, kicking the car door open and ignoring the frantic shouts trailing after me. _Are you here?_

Nothing. 

 _Are you ever_ not _here? Is that even possible? What the fuck is going on?_

_I could really use your nagging right now. It’d probably be super helpful, for once._

Okay, I guess I kind of deserve no response for that one. Still, _shit._

“Solas?” I mutter. “God, am I a dumbass? Do I think it works like some kind of bat signal or wha—“ 

“Allie, honey,” I’m twisted around by the shoulders and blink, startled, at the face materializing before me. It’s an impressive imitation, I’ll admit. Just not impressive enough to fool me. The eyes, not dark enough. The laughlines around her mouth are not pronounced enough. Her cheeks are full, but I remember them being hallow on that day, and the bags under her eyes particularly dark. Her breath as she opens her mouth to speak doesn’t reek of nicotine in a way that makes me grimace. It’s close, but not close enough. I’ve been here too many times to forget. 

“Leave me the fuck alone,” I tell it. 

“That’s no way to speak to your mother.” 

“You aren’t my mother, and neither is she, asshole. But nice try.”  

I watch as lips are drawn taut, eyes flash menacingly. _“I’m only going to tell you once, Allison. Get back in the car.”_

“I’m good, actually.” 

_“Allison…”_

“Look, I get that this your day job, or whatever, to scare the shit out of people like me. But there’s something here you’re not understanding, I think.” 

 _“Oh?”_ A lift of a brow. 

“Yeah. This is maybe the one day of my life not even a demon could make scarier, so fuck all the way off. Thanks.” 

 _“What makes you so sure of that?”_ it hums thoughtfully. “ _The human psyche is a complicated thing, after all. So fragile.”_

I do my best not to roll my eyes. 

It doesn’t completely work. 

“What’s your end game here? You want to possess me? Sorry, no vacancies. I’m already full-up on entities. I can put you on a waiting list, though.” 

“ _You think yourself brave, don’t you?”_ it smiles, and for the first time I feel myself shiver. _“Brave enough that you could not even save yourself when you found yourself in true danger. You are as fragile as the rest. Wisdom is seldom useful in the face of fear.”_

“Shut the fuck up,” I groan, “I already told you that you aren’t getting what you want from me, so just—“ 

 _“If not here, and if not now, then when, I wonder?”_ it drawls. _“Shall we go back further?”_

“Are you seriously asking me?” I ask, deadpan. 

 _“Seemed the polite thing to do,”_ is the short reply before my vision goes black. It’s only for a a second or two, but it still throws me off and sends my head spinning. A string of expletives rolls off my tongue as I try to regain my balance and survey my surroundings with no small degree of panic swelling in my gut. 

My eyes immediately zero in on the carpeted staircase and the picture frames hanging up on the wall alongside it, suspiciously absent of the most embarrassing school pictures known to man. The only immediately familiar picture hanging is my parents’ wedding photo. 

_Home._

I feel my jaw set in anger. “This is so fucked. Where the fuck did you go, you son of a bitch?” 

My questions receives no answer before a knock sounds at the front door at the bottom of the stairs. My heart jumps into my throat at the sound of my mother’s voice echoing from the kitchen, “I’ll be right there!” I freeze as the doors to the kitchen swing open and she steps out, copper blonde curls billowing behind her, for some reason not tied up in her characteristic braid. She looks so young— not to say she ever looked _old_ , but I can’t remember ever seeing her look like… my age, almost. My knees buckle, and I lower myself onto the steps and watch the scene unfold before me uneasily. 

The door creaks open and I edge forward to try and catch a glimpse of the visitor, though I have my suspicions— 

— which are all firmly quashed. 

_Who the fuck is that?_

A late middle-aged woman stands there, with graying black hair and a pinched expression. Her lips, painted ruby-pink, turn downwards at the sight of my mother. “Annabel.” 

“Margaret,” my mother greets mildly. “What can I do for you?”

The woman’s expression twists unkindly. “You can start with telling me where my daughter is.” 

“Kathryn? Is she missing?” 

“Don’t act as though you haven’t taken her in before,” the woman snaps, “Just tell me where she is.” 

“I don’t know, I’m sorry,” my mother offers curtly. “I haven’t seen her in a few weeks. I thought she’d gone home, that’s what she said she planned to do. If I hear anything, I’ll be sure to give you a call.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” sneers Margaret. “I don’t suppose she’s up there hiding with her bastard, hm?” she nods angrily towards the staircase and I almost jolt, thinking she’s spotted me. 

My mother’s entire body stiffens at the remark and my heart aches. God, I miss her so fucking much. “If I hear from her, I’ll give you call,” she reiterates slowly and meaningfully. “But I think it’s time for you to go, Margaret.” 

“That child will be nothing but trouble, just like her mother. If you want to be stuck with the both of them, be my guest,” the woman warns before turning furiously away. 

I watch my mother shut the door with a firm thud and press her back against it with a sigh of what I can only assume is relief. 

“It’s okay, baby,” a voice sounds from behind me. 

I jump, and turn to find another familiar face looking about a decade too young. In Kathryn’s arms is a baby with a head of sparse dark hair and a pudgy nose. “Thanks, Anna,” she says, tearing her eyes away from the baby and to my mother. For a brief moment, I feel her eyes drift back and linger in my direction before gazing back down at the baby. 

“Honey, if you don’t want to go home, you know you don’t have to,” my mother tells her matter-of-factly. “You’re eighteen, there’s nothing they can do. And you know we love to have you around. Allie, too.” 

Kathryn huffs a sarcastic laugh. “My mom will chase me to the ends of the earth until she lands my ass in a convent, legal or not. She’ll never forgive me for making her a grandmother at forty-five.” 

“Well, you’re always welcome here.” 

“I know. Thank you.” She pokes at the baby’s nose, prompting a coo. 

_Damn, I was fucking adorable._

My fascination only lasts for a minute before I realize a bit more soberly:

_Damn, I look like her._

All those years of bleaching my hair and experimenting with varying levels of makeup (and avoiding looking too hard, too close in mirrors) had given me ample time to forget. But, it’s there. Whether I want it to be or not. The only real difference is the eyes— hers are dark enough to be nearly black, mine are a much lighter hazel-brown. Not for the first time, I wonder where I got them from. The old woman— Margaret’s— eyes had been dark, too. Clearly not from her side of the biological tree then. 

“She’s very calm with you,” my mother comments, “Usually she puts up a fuss when Ellis holds her for too long. I think she assumes he’s trying to put her to bed.” 

“Well, she never falls asleep with me,” it sounds almost like a complaint. 

“Maybe she just doesn’t want to miss a minute of you being here.” 

Kathryn smiles half-heartedly. “I don’t think so. I’m not really Super-Mom material like you.” 

“You don’t have to be Super-Mom, Kathryn. You just have to be you.” 

“What if being me’s such a fucking pain?” Her eyes stray back to the baby — me, I guess. “What if she’s better off with Super Mom and Super Dad?”

“I don’t know about better off,” replies my mother diplomatically. “But we love her, and we love you. A family doesn’t necessarily just have to be a mom and a dad, you know. There are things you could teach her that I’m not sure we could.” 

“Like what?” she snorts derisively. “How to get pregnant and disowned at seventeen? What excellent values to pass on as my legacy.” Then, she pokes the baby’s nose again and remarks baldly, “If you get pregnant as a teenager like me I will kick your dumb ass myself, got it? I don’t care how far apart we are. I’ll feel it, like some spidey-sense shit. You’re going to have so much more than I did.” She glances at my mom, then. “You already do.” 

“Kathryn, you—“ 

“Here,” I feel the figure brush past me on the way down the stairs, handing the baby off to my mom. “She should probably sleep soon. She’s got big things ahead of her, right?” 

My mom’s green eyes warm considerably. “You get some rest, too, okay?” 

“Sure.” 

“Goodnight, Kathryn.” 

“Night.” 

_“You love to cry about how your mother ruined your life, but you ruined hers first, didn’t you?”_

Oh, back are we? 

What was the point of this, even? How is this any worse than the day she almost killed us both? 

If you’re trying to scare me, you’re doing a pretty bad job. 

 _“Fear?”_ it laughs. _“Fear is the beginning.”_

And what the fuck are you, then? 

_“The end.”_

* * *

* * *

“You were not in the Fade.” 

“Yes, I was,” I retort angrily. “There was a demon trying to fuck with me, and I was definitely asleep. What else could it have been?” 

“A trick of the imagination?” Solas suggests mildly, setting down his mug onto his desk. Evidently, I'd interrupted his precious nap time with my antics and he'd decided to keep himself awake he'd have to guzzle a fuckton of tea. Woe, thy name is Solas. If I have to watch him make that dumb fucking face after a sip one more time, I'm legitimately going to snap.“If you had truly been traversing the Fade, I would’ve sensed your presence immediately. And you say you had no contact with Wisdom, which would be impossible as spirits are at their strongest in the Fade.“ 

**he is correct in that, were you in the Fade i should have been able to contact you normally. this is strange.**

“Well, Wisdom’s currently stuck with me and _not_ in the Fade, so maybe that has something to do with the bad connection,” I interrupt irately. 

Solas sighs. “Even blood mages who contract themselves to demons would be susceptible to them in the Fade. There is no escape from such a bond. If there were, I suppose there would be less abominations roaming around.” 

“I didn’t make it up,” I tell him. “Maybe I’d believe the nightmare about the… accident, or whatever, but I’ve never once dreamt about my biological mother’s life before—well, at all, actually. This wasn’t a case of my brain freaking the fuck out about everything, trust me. I know the difference.” 

“… I believe you,” he offers plainly. “Though I truly do not believe you were in the Fade, there is too much left unanswered for me to say for certain. Is this the first you’ve dreamt since you’ve found yourself in Thedas?” 

“I… think so?” 

“You think, or you _know_?” 

“I mean, I could’ve…dreamt… and not remembered it? That’s a thing brains do? But you said that doesn’t happen here, and definitely not to mages.” 

“If you were in the Fade, you would have remembered.” 

“Yeah, well.” 

“It is interesting that this has happened now of all times,” comments Solas idly. “Now that you are finally putting forth a serious effort into your studies.” 

“ _Hey!”_

**he is not wrong. you spent a great deal of time in denial.**

Maybe, but he didn’t have to _say_ it.   
****

“Whatever,” I brush a hand through my hair, ceasing my pacing for a minute. “Is this something I have to worry about? Like, am I going to be haunted by this thing forever now, or what?”

“We do not know for certain whether or not what you encountered was a demon.” 

“It sure seemed like a demon. Ominous monologue and all.” 

“You say it had no interest in possessing you?” 

“I mean, would it really have told me if it did?” I start pacing again, wringing my hands in front of me nervously. 

“I suppose not,” replies the elf flatly. “If you insist on doing that, could you go outside? I’d rather not have to explain to the Inquisitor why you’ve paced a hole in my floor.” 

At that, I glare at him. “It’s not like I can make it look any worse!” 

“Perhaps a bit of fresh air would do you some good. You seem… agitated.” 

“Oh, do I? I’m so sorry. Next time a demon tries to take me down memory lane, I’ll be sure to react accordingly and skip off onto the templar grounds so they can just spare me the trouble and take me out for good.” 

“Indeed,” he replies, sticking his nose back into his fucking book.

“I’m glad you’re so relaxed about this,” I tell him over my shoulder as I stomp towards the door. “Because if this thing decides it wants to rip my life into pieces, it’s not just my ass on the line, in case you’ve forgotten!” 

I receive a distracted wave of the hand in response and grunt angrily to myself before slamming the door shut behind me. 

* * *

* * *

It’s late enough that I don’t have to worry about wading through a bunch of people crowding the halls, all itching for a chance to speak to the Inquisitor, or whatever the fuck, thankfully. So I spend a good while wandering aimlessly, trailing my fingertips along the crumbly walls and trying hard not to think too hard. It doesn’t really work that well, of course. 

**solas doesn’t want you to worry.**

Well, he’s doing a great job as usual.   
****

**you will be fine, you have support.**

Do I?   
****

You weren’t there.

**that is a concern, but not something for you to agonize about on your own.**

Whatever.   
****

**not ‘whatever’. give it time.**

I try not to roll my eyes.   
****

Doesn’t work.

“Well, you look like shit.” 

For a minute, I’m half-convinced it’s Wisdom talking to me because I’ve been so zoned out. It takes several seconds for it to register that the voice is definitively baritone and male and also the last one I needed to hear at that very moment. I glower up, only to find myself taken back at the almost concerned expression accompanying the rude comment. “I’d say the same for you, but does the obvious really need to be stated?” I droll. 

Carver huffs to himself, clearly not all that offended. “Isn’t it a bit past your bedtime? Who thought it was a good idea to let you wander the grounds at this time of night?” 

“Me. Because I’m an adult,” I answer flatly. “Anyway. Good talk. Bye.” 

“Wait.” 

I pause, not really wanting to but a little too exhausted to refuse. “What?” 

“You shouldn’t be wandering alone.” 

I blink before actually rolling my eyes heavenward. “Look, the Grey Warden act is cute and all but I’ll be fi—“ 

He draws closer, armor clamoring with each step, and lowers his voice. “It is really _not_ the night to be tempting fate. I would not even offer if I thought otherwise, trust me. I’m not that desperate to be insulted and your company is not nearly so desirable." 

I eye him carefully. “Why? What’s going on?” 

Carver grimaces. “I suppose it would be asking too much to tell you to mind your curiosity.” 

“Basically.” 

“The templars are on high alert,” he answers lowly. “As were the Inquisitor’s orders. A group of mages appeared at the gates earlier in the evening and naturally—“ 

“Everything’s fucked.” 

He huffs an almost laugh. “Not quite, but it is definitely not in the best interest of any mage to be found on their own at the moment. Perhaps especially you.” 

I make a noise in the back of my throat in acknowledgment. “What, are you worried or something?” 

“For you? Not particularly,” he glances away. “But Varric is rather fond of you and I’d never hear the end of it if I did not at least _try_ to stop you from doing something stupid.” 

“Whatever, thanks for the heads up, I guess,” I reply, my mind already drifting about the implications this could have. It completely slips my mind to rip him a new one for implying I'd ever do, or have ever done, something stupid in my life. 

More importantly, if Trevelyan sided with the templars (which she did) then those could be Venatori defectors, or— 

— an ungodly squeal tears its way out of me, startling Carver who steps about two feet back at the sound of it. “ _Dorian_ ,” I mutter to myself. 

**careful.**

Right, right.   
****

The younger Hawke eyes me strangely. “What was that?”  
****

“Nothing!”  I chirp, trying not to appear to excited. It could literally be anyone, I suppose, but— what are the odds of it? Dorian’s probably the only mage in all of Inquisition crazy enough to storm a templar-aligned fortress and cause such a stir. That beautiful, beautiful man. “Do you know where the mages came from?”

“No. I’d only heard they were claiming to be refugees in need of sanctuary.” 

“That’s going to go over well with Her Majesty, I’m sure.” 

He shrugs. “Maybe so.” And then his eyes narrow. “Why the sudden interest?” 

“Why not?” It’s my turn to shrug. “More mages means less templars on my ass, right?” 

“The things you say,” Carver responds with a shake of his head. “Rarely make sense.” 

“I think it makes perfect sense, actually.” 

“You would, wouldn’t you?” 

“Uh, yeah. That’s what I said.” 

Carver sighs exasperatedly. “Now that your curiosity has been sated, shall I escort you back to your apostate?” 

I make a face. “First off, he’s not _my_ apostate. Secondly, fuck no. Fuck him. You can escort me to the tavern and then you can fuck off, too. Tonight sounds like a perfect night to get shitfaced since the feds are nicely distracted." 

“Why is it always the insufferable ones with Varric?" asks the man, rubbing at his temple with a pained expression. 

"Birds of a feather," I hum. "And you're not exempt since he's named you, too, anyway. Isn't that right, Junior?" 

I'm only marginally satisfied with myself by the groan that remark elicits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (⊙_☉)


End file.
